Meet
by Anonymous033
Summary: "His seat-mate is the slip of a woman, all skinny and efficiency-sized." / An AU where Kate and Castle meet where they least expect. Immediately follows Johanna Beckett's death. Pre-series. Now complete.
1. Plane

**Disclaimer: **_Castle _is not mine.

**Spoilers: **None but those at the beginning.

**Setting: **Slightly AU in the sense that Kate was not in New York when her mother was murdered, and she's now flying back for Johanna's funeral. Castle's past is canon up to Kyra. Meredith and Alexis don't exist.

Enjoy!

_**-Soph**_

* * *

**Plane**

He hates long-distance trips.

Okay, so maybe a flight from California back to New York doesn't really count as 'long-distance'. But it _is _eight hours long, layover included, so he thinks he's entitled to a little whining.

His seat-mate is the slip of a woman, all skinny and efficiency-sized. She's oriented towards the cabin window—feet up on the edge of her seat and elbows tucked in between her body and her thighs—and she ignores him as he stuffs his carry-on bag into the overhead storage space. He wrestles his large frame into the seat beside her and observes her disgruntledly. A long-distance flight he can deal with, but not a taciturn seat partner. He's a social man by nature—he can't imagine going through eight hours deliberately not acknowledging that he is squished into an uncomfortably small space with a woman who pretends he doesn't exist.

When she still doesn't turn around despite his tentative 'hi', 'hello', and 'hey', he gives up and sinks back into his chair with a magazine.

They will be getting off the plane in Dallas, anyway. Maybe he'll have a different seat partner when they reconvene.

(Four hours later, unluckily for him, he finds out that that's not the case.)

-.-.-.-.-

Being a writer, he runs on a completely different sleep-wake schedule from the Average Joe. People normally go to bed early in the night and wake up at dawn; he likes to go to bed at dawn and wake up blearily at noon, vaguely aware of the need for lunch. It's no surprise, then, that having stayed up in order to board his 6AM flight and then kept himself occupied with magazines throughout the first leg of his journey (he'd rather not go to sleep next to Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass, thank you very much), his stock of adrenaline depletes right around the time that they take off on the second flight.

He's nodding off into a gloriously tanned bikini body on a glossy page when a snuffle next to him brings his senses back to high alert.

Momentarily.

Just as his eyes close again, the sniffle comes again.

Frustrated, he tears his eyes open. "'Scuse me," he says gruffly, tired enough by now that he's not afraid of being killed in his sleep by Mystery Woman. "I'm trying to _rest._"

Miss Holier-Than-Thou _finally _turns her head around, and her face shocks him back to wakefulness. It is not as if there is anything distinctly alarming about her features; her red-rimmed eyes are simply enough to make him wonder if she has been _crying beside him the entire time. _"I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "I'll … try to be quiet."

"No—" he dismisses his words, instantly contrite, "—hey, are you okay?"

Her face crumbles and then blanks so quickly that he wonders if the change in expression was simply a trick of the light. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replies. "I just—allergies, y'know? Someone on this flight must have a cat or dog."

_Four hours _is the heck of a long time for an allergic reaction to develop, but he lets her excuse pass. He doesn't really know her, anyway. He wouldn't know what to say if she _did _tell him what was wrong. (Maybe she thinks she's the one with the taciturn seat partner, and she's disproportionately upset about that?)

"Oh, okay," he concludes awkwardly. Then, as an extra measure, adds, "Well, I mean … feel free to sniffle, then. I suppose we can't really help allergies."

The woman's—or girl's, really; she seems so young now that he's seen her (How old is she, anyway?)—smile is brittle. "Right," she agrees, and then she turns to look out the window. The clouds must be beautiful.

And he's never going to be able to fall asleep now.

-.-.-.-.-

Ten minutes later, his conscience finally wins out.

"Hey," he says, reaching over to tap on the woman's—girl's—arm. She hasn't made a single noise since he called her out on her sniffling, but he's not remotely stupid enough to believe that that means she's stopped crying. "You know it helps to talk about it, right?"

The girl hums in reply, but doesn't turn back to look at him. "Thank you, but this is far too personal to talk about."

"Well, all the more reason you should tell me," he points out. "We're strangers; we won't see each other after this. You won't have to worry about my betraying your secret or any such issue. I don't even know your name."

"I'm Kate."

"Oh." He pauses. "I guess that _would _make it harder for me to keep your secret."

He thinks she does chuckle.

"My mother…" she finally tells the cabin window. "She—passed away. I'm going back to attend her funeral."

"Oh," he utters. Now he feels like the biggest ass on the planet. He didn't think— "I'm sorry."

"She was only forty-seven."

He doesn't know how to respond to that. He didn't think it would be something like that. 'She died so young' seems wildly inappropriate for a complete stranger—let alone someone who's the almost-grown daughter of the deceased—but forty-seven really does seem shockingly young. Who dies at forty-seven?

"It was so sudden," the girl continues. "She was still fine when I went back for Christmas break."

The break in the dam is abrupt; in the blink of an eye, Kate is curled up in her seat and sobbing in a manner that is simultaneously controlled yet hysterical. He feels a sense of guilt wrack him. _God, _he wants to comfort her. He wants, perversely, to make things better for her. But he can't, because they barely know each other and he's really bad at comforting and the last time he faced a crying woman was when his girlfriend of three years decided she needed better things in life than him but felt bad about her decision.

Nevertheless, he can't leave this not-girl-not-woman to cry alone, so he lays an awkward palm on the spot in between her shoulder blades—she doesn't shrug him away, oddly enough—and uses his free hand to wave away the alarmed stewardess that strides over to them.

Kate keeps crying, and so he keeps pressing his hand to her back.

A long hour later—or maybe it was five minutes; he's not counting—she calms down. He lets his hand drop, and she bends down to search through her bag under the seat for … a wet wipe, apparently, which she passes quickly over her face as if to erase the mark of tear tracks. Thus cleaned, she straightens up and looks at him with a partly ashamed smile.

"Thank you," she says. "I didn't mean to break down on you like that."

He twitches a shoulder. Truth be told, he's not _really _that heartless. If she needed to cry, he would have gladly let her. "Do you feel better?" he asks instead.

Her eyes dart away. "I suppose so, if we're not counting my embarrassment now that I'm done … breaking down."

"Hey, there's nothing to be embarrassed about," he replies firmly. "Crying is a completely ordinary physiological reaction to stressful stimuli."

She rolls her eyes, ostensibly at his choice of phrasing. "I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do," he answers crisply. "Seriously, though … I'm sorry for your loss. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I don't think so. Thank you for offering, though."

"I mean it."

"Yeah, but…." She sucks in a stilted breath. "Short of bringing my mother back to me, there's nothing anyone can do."

"What was she like?"

Kate looks startled by his topic of choice. "What do you mean?"

"Was she tall? Fat? A bad dancer? A good cook?" he persists. The girl's eyes narrow in response, but before she can go on the defensive, he holds up a stalling hand. "I've never had a dad," he tells her gently. "Most of the time, I don't even realize that. It's not something that's frequently on my mind. But when it is, I find that making up stories about him helps.

"I don't know if it works that way here," he continues sombrely. "And I'm not trying to compare what we have, or even saying that I understand what you're going through, because I don't. But I hope you know that you can talk about her. To me. 'Cause we're strangers an' all, you know?"

Kate nods slowly, seeming to process his words. She opens her mouth. He thinks she's going to tell him about her mother, but instead, she queries, "What's the image in your head like of your father?"

He doesn't talk about this to anyone, _ever._

Not even to his mother.

But they—he and Kate—are strangers.

And _her _real mother has just passed away.

If she needs him to talk about his fictional dad, he will.

He'll give her that.

-.-.-.-.-

They land at New York's LaGuardia Airport at five in the evening; by that time, he's exhausted the stories he'd already made up previously about his dad, and then come up with a few new ones.

His seat companion doesn't seem _okay _yet—and he doesn't expect her to be—but she's smiling, and he thinks he might consider that one of his greatest accomplishments in life. So maybe they're still strangers, but he's never given a stranger a real reason to smile like that before.

They part ways at the luggage carousel after disembarking; Kate sticks out a hand to shake his, and he gladly obliges. _It's funny, _he thinks. He'd assumed she was a cold, unfriendly person when he first boarded the plane. But if ever there were a person to prove the old adage 'Don't judge a book by its cover' true, it would be her.

Kate.

"I never told you my name," he says after their handshake. "It's Rick."

Just levelling the playing field.

"I know," she answers to his surprise. "My mom loved your books."

And then she's turned and walked away.

* * *

**A/N: **If you're wondering what he was doing flying Economy, that will be explained if this fic is continued :) and no, that's not a you-better-review-or-I-won't-update threat. I currently have a second chapter in the works, but as I haven't written out any other chapter yet, I'm making no promises. This chapter works just as well as a one-shot or not, so I'm marking it 'Incomplete' for now—if I haven't continued it in a week's time, I will mark it 'Complete'.

Thank you for reading!

_**-Soph**_


	2. Bar

**A/N: **Alright, whip out your tissues. This is the sad (or angry?) chapter!

_**-Soph**_

* * *

**Bar**

The Old Haunt is his regular bar. It's quieter than most places and offers him a modicum of privacy in a city that's otherwise very public. He likes to go there to write; nurse a glass of Scotch while he turns empty notepads into the beginnings of a novel and wears out pencil after pencil late into the night.

Tonight, the Old Haunt is closed for reasons unknown to him.

Richard Castle really wants to write, though, so he heads a few blocks southwards; finds a bar that's not too full but not too empty, and secludes himself into a corner booth with a baseball cap for a measure of anonymity.

It's not really that he can't write without a drink, but he finds that it loosens his thoughts and shakes the words out of his mind more easily. It's been ages since he's left boarding school—more than a decade, even—but sometimes the taunts of cruel schoolboys from years past still echo in his head (_"You're just a loser, Ricky!"_), shaking him up and causing the insecurities constantly pressing on his chest to squeeze in a vice grip. The low, buzzing hum of a bar drowns out those insecurities. Sometimes, they stave off his loneliness, too.

So, he likes writing in bars. He has no idea if that's conventional, but it's what he does.

The words flow smoothly tonight, and he manages to tune out the rest of the world as he scribbles furiously in his notepad. His writing, when hurried, is barely legible to readers other than him, but that doesn't bother him: He will typewrite its entirety out later, fixing any grammatical mistakes he may encounter at the same time. He isn't too bothered about having, in a way, to write his novel twice. It's the only job he has to do.

A glance at his watch tells him it's nearing four hours since he first sat down that he finally looks up, stretching out the sore muscles of his hand and straightening his back. It pops loudly, and he winces; it doesn't hurt, but it reminds him that maybe the lifestyle of being constantly hunched over a notebook and writing like a mad man isn't one meant to be sustained long-term. He twists his neck left and right, rubbing out the kinks in his shoulders with a hand—

—and that's when his eyes fall on the slim brunette at a corner of the bar counter.

He remembers her. Kate. That's her name. She was memorable.

Her story is a tragic one. She'd come back to New York for her mother's funeral, she'd told him. But he doesn't know what she's doing all alone at the bar now, her slim fingers wrapped tightly around a glass of liquor. She's still in what appears to be her funeral dress—black and proper and still neatly pressed, despite the dishevelled look of her braided hair—and his heart gives a pang at the sight. He remembers how sad she'd been, and it doesn't seem right that she's trying to forget her sorrows in alcohol. He's been in that place. The buzz keeps the pain temporarily at bay, and the misery comes back tenfold in the morning.

He debates for a moment going over to her. They're still strangers, after all; despite that brief moment of connection they'd had on a shared flight home, she might not appreciate his minding her business. But then she drops her head and visibly sighs, and he can't stay away any longer. Call it pity, or attraction, or vastly misplaced concern—but she looks in need of company, and he knows her. He knows her story. He can't let her grieve alone.

He stands, packs up his stuff, and makes his way over to her. "Kate?" he greets softly. The girl starts and fumbles a little in her seat, proof that she's not quite sober. She's not drunk yet, though, and it's evident when she turns to regard him with eyes that are only somewhat clouded.

"Rick?" she asks in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he blurts before he can think better of it, sounding every bit the disapproving school marm he doesn't mean to be, and her eyes dim a little. Grimacing, he sits on the bar stool beside hers. "I meant," he says apologetically, "are you okay?"

She waves a careless hand. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

She sighs again. "Fine as I can be," she deflects before repeating to him, "So, what _are _you doing here?"

"Writing," he admits sheepishly, gesturing at the leather folder containing his work with a slight nudge of his hand. "Can't do it without some Scotch."

"Oh." She looks bewildered by that.

"Eh, it's a process." He shrugs. Another glance at his watch tells him it's approaching two-thirty; it's late, and he wants to go home. But she's still sitting here, and … he doesn't really want to leave her alone.

She doesn't miss his less-than-subtle action, though. He doesn't know if he imagines it, but her face seems to darken. "You need to go," she surmises, her voice low with regret.

"I do," he agrees. "But—hey, are you here with anyone?"

She raises her eyebrows, looking unamused. "Is that you asking me out?"

"No!" he splutters. At her affronted stare, he continues more softly, blustering, "I—I mean, you're really pretty; I'd ask you out under different circumstances; but … I just wanted to know if you could get home okay."

It doesn't appear to make the situation better. "I can take a cab," she huffs. "I'm not stupid."

"I—I know," he stammers, "I'm just … trying to be chivalrous?"

She rubs her temples, clearly exasperated. "You're really bad at it," she complains.

"I know," he replies with a cringe.

She lets out another breath of impatience, but slips down from her bar stool (unsteadily, but on her own). "Okay, you can hail me a cab. I was going to leave soon, anyway," she says, and her concession does strange things to his heart. But he's a gentleman and these aren't 'different circumstances', so he reins in the excited thought that sits on the edge of his tongue. Instead, he throws a few bills onto the bar counter, hard-headedly ignoring the force of her glare, and touches her forearm to guide her in the direction of the doors.

She lets him lead her out.

Outside, the air is cold—the wind hits him with a sharp slap. Kate shivers; without saying a word, he removes his own coat to drape around her shoulders. She opens her mouth, probably to protest, but he silences her with a look.

"Where's your coat?" he asks. Even through the dim rays of the streetlights, he sees her flush.

"I don't have one," she admits shamefully. He clucks his tongue.

"You show up at a bar without a coat, in a funeral dress, your hair all … lopsided, in the middle of the night—"

"Save me the lecture that would make my mother proud," she interrupts loudly, sharply; angrily. "She was _murdered, _Rick, she—I—we had to postpone the funeral because the morgue had to stitch her up. I just wanted to forget. I wanted to forget because I—"

Anger turns into devastation in all of a sudden; devastation morphs quickly into horror that has her retching, nauseated, against the side exterior of the bar she has just exited. He knows it's the grief—she hasn't drunk that much—and he feels guilt overwhelm him. . _Murdered. _How is that even possible? That doesn't happen to people in real life. But this girl—she just … god, she can't catch a break. And he … he's just reminded her of what she's trying to forget.

He's a damn screw-up; that's what he is.

Guilt pushes him forwards; forces him to lay a hand on her lower back, offering silent support, as she throws up. He doesn't know if it's appropriate, but anything else would be inappropriate now that he's _done this._

She straightens up once she's finished, her back towards him as she chokes out a bitter laugh. "This please you, Rick?" she asks quietly. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. "You _are _a murder mystery writer, after all. This kind of death … it's right up your alley."

Her words are cruel. So cruel. But he knows she's just lashing out against the hurt he's caused her.

"I'm sorry," he answers lamely. "I know it's a platitude you can do _nothing _with now, but … I'm really sorry, Kate. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

Her shoulders sag, all the fight going out of her. "I can't forget," she replies simply. "It's not your fault."

It feels like his fault, because she had seemed relatively okay until he started lecturing her on not being dressed properly—of _all the stupid things—_but he doesn't think arguing with her is a good idea. So, he keeps silent until she shuffles tentatively to face him.

"My mom met you once," she starts, and then she lowers her eyes. "I think she would be so ashamed to see me talking to her favourite author that way."

"I think she'd understand," he murmurs. He expects her to light right into him for presuming he has the faintest idea of what her mom would think, but she nods instead, taking his acceptance of her disguised apology for what it is.

"R-Rick?" Her voice breaks, betraying her vulnerability.

"Mm?"

"Walk me home?" she whispers. He doesn't really get a chance to process her words—let alone come up with an answer—before she's tearing up, already wanting to take back her plea. "I—I just don't feel like taking a cab, and … forget it; I—"

"Hey," he cuts in softly. "If you need me to walk you home, I'll walk you home."

Her eyes dart up to his. "I don't usually let strange men take me around," she insists, as if determined to prove to him that she's more responsible than this. "I just—"

"I get it, Kate," he promises. "And hey, look: If it makes you feel any better, you know my name and my occupation. The bartender knows we left together. We've already talked once without any issues and, to cinch the deal, I'll keep a one-foot distance from you at all times."

She nods, relieved, but steps closer to him anyway. He guesses that, for some reason, she trusts him; which is a little ironic, because he had just given her reason to paint the sidewalk with splatter.

But when she points out the direction to her apartment and starts walking, he follows her.

She trusts him, and that's an honour he can't repay. Not in this lifetime.

Her mother was murdered.

She's letting him walk her home.

You don't take that kind of trust for granted.

-.-.-.-.-

They are silent on the walk, partly because they are mostly still strangers and partly because small talk would be too trite but anything else, too serious.

When they reach the end of her block, she unwraps his coat from her shoulders and returns it to him (thankfully free of vomit, not that he would have blamed her if it _hadn't _been) with a hesitant, wavering smile on her face.

"Thank you," she says. "I know it wasn't in your plans tonight to have to walk me home…"

"My pleasure," he answers sincerely, "always."

Her hesitant smile stretches the tiniest bit.

"A-and I know it's not really my place," he adds on impulse, tripping over his own tongue as his mind comes alight with an idea, "and I want to make it very clear that I'm _not _trying to ask you out and you have no obligations at all, but—" He pulls a pen from his front pocket and silently gestures towards her palm, which she extends to him and allows him to write on, "—this is my personal cell. And before you go there—I'm not giving it to you out of pity. But if you need anything at all, at any time, even if it's just someone to walk you home from a bar, you can call me. I'll answer. But I want to be clear once more that this is no-strings-attached. If you never want to see me again, then feel free to wash this away."

She stares at it for so long that he starts to worry about whether or not he did the right thing. (_"You're just a half-witted idiot your mother picked up from the drain, Ricky."_)

Finally, she closes her palm and looks up. "Tell you a secret?" she asks. He nods. She chuckles sadly before confessing, "I'm nineteen. I wasn't supposed to be in that bar. I had a fake ID."

Oh. _Oh, _that makes things a lot more awful and tragic. (And he's an asshole, telling a nineteen-year-old he'd ask her out under different circumstances.)

She shifts on her feet. "You won't tell, right?" she continues, her voice strained. "I'll try not to do it again."

And even though he knows he shouldn't, he shakes his head. "I won't tell," he says. "But I really hope you find a better way, Kate."

She gives him another nod, blinking fiercely as her lip trembles. "Goodnight, Rick."

"G'night, Kate."

He watches to make sure she gets into her apartment building safely.

He really hopes she finds a better way.


	3. Coffee Shop (Part 1)

**Coffee Shop (Part 1)**

Three months.

It takes three months for him to hear from Kate.

He'd honestly forgotten about her in the meantime. The circumstances under which they'd met are truly of the unforgettable type—and in a bad way—but New York City is a big place, and for them to bump into each other three times would really be _too much _of a coincidence. He didn't think she'd want to call the creepy author who wrote his number on her hand after meeting her twice either; so really, he didn't think they'd ever meet again.

He would have answered if she'd called, of course.

But she doesn't call, so he forgets about her.

Which dictates that as luck would have it, she calls him at ten in the morning after the one night in three months that he has a writing/gaming marathon.

His protocol for silencing whatever wakes him up when he doesn't want to wake up is generally to slam his arm in the direction of his bedside table. This habit works very well with his alarm clock: It shuts up instantly.

It doesn't work so well on his phone.

With a grunt, he picks up his clunky Nokia device and holds it to his ear. He mutters what he thinks might be an approximation of his name, but judging by the prolonged silence on the other end, he fails. Just as he's about to fall back asleep, the caller speaks up.

"Rick?" asks the musical lilt, and he's instantly wide awake.

"K-Kate," he stammers, clamouring into an upright position. The bed sheet follows him—he feels _naked_, even though he's technically wearing boxers and she can't see him, not through the phone. (Note to Self: Find out whether anyone has invented camera phones and whether those are safe to use in bed.)

"Yeah, this is she," Kate answers, and she sounds relieved and happy in a way that sends a thrill through him. Oh. Not helping with the nakedness. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you? You sounded very—"

Oh, _god. _Definitely not helping with the nakedness. He clears his throat. "Uh, you did, a little bit. I was up gaming last night."

"Gaming?" She sounds startled.

"Yeah. PlayStation, y'know." There's no indication that she knows, so he blathers pointlessly, "I'm rather partial toward _G-Darius. _It's a shoot 'em up—"

"Uh, okay," she interrupts, her breath hitching, and he feels _bad. _This is the girl with a murdered mother, and he's talking about shooting games.

But he doesn't know what else to talk about. It's been three months. He misses her in an almost out-of-proportion manner, and the conflict tears him apart.

"Listen," she murmurs, breaking him out of his thoughts. "I … was wanting to talk to you."

"Yeah?" he replies immediately. "What about?"

There's the hitch in her breath again. "Is it okay if we meet up somewhere?"

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Name the place, and there I'll show my pretty face."

She chuckles a bit. Probably to humour him. It wasn't that funny. "There's a coffee shop around the corner of my apartment building," she says. "It's a pretty good place. I mean, I don't know if you noticed, since it was closed, but we walked past it the other night—"

"I did notice," he tells her, even though it was far too many nights ago. He did notice and he does remember, though. There's nothing about that night that's hazy even after having been run through his mind countless times.

"Could we meet up there in an hour?" she asks. "Or—if you're busy or would prefer to get more sleep, we could meet up in the afternoon instead…."

"An hour is fine," he assures her. "It's about all the time I need to get myself looking ruggedly handsome again."

"Okay." This time, the giggle is genuine. "See you there, then?"

"An hour," he confirms.

She hangs up—he is left staring at his phone.

Okay, he lied.

No, really, he lied.

He _tried _to forget about her, but she is as unforgettable as the circumstances under which they'd met—only, possibly in a good way.

-.-.-.-.-

She's already seated in the coffee shop by the time he walks through the doors. He sees her instantly; she's at a table by the window, her expression wistful as she observes the goings-on outside, and the luxurious brown of her hair is stark against the cerulean blue of her dress. It's a fairly conservative look (her dress is plain, modest, and unadorned, probably a sign that she is still in mourning) but he is struck by how gorgeous she really is. He's already aware of her good looks—even in grief, she had had a dark sort of allure to her—but here, under the pale sunbeams of spring and with the slightest hint of a smile to her, she is _stunning._

He can only imagine how beautiful she must be when she laughs.

As if she can sense his staring, she turns her head and gives him a real smile, and his heart stutters painfully in his chest. He feels like a schoolboy again, humbled and overawed by this girl who was only supposed to be ordinary.

The connection is broken when someone knocks into him from behind, causing him to stumble. He looks over his shoulder, but no obvious culprit is to be found; when he meets Kate's eyes again, he can tell even from that distance that she is amused. He looks away before she can see his embarrassment. He's a grown man—_god,_ a _decade _older than her—but her charm draws him in effortlessly, even when he knows that it shouldn't be.

Since she already has coffee, he lines up at the counter to get his drink; he uses the precious few minutes that the barista needs to serve the people before him to compose himself. By the time he turns away from the counter, he's already put his mask of confidence on—the one that Paula taught him to project at publicity events.

He swaggers over to the table where she's sitting and gives her a brilliant grin. "Hey," he drawls.

She only gives him an odd look. "Why are you speaking weirdly?" is her blunt question, and it makes him falter. Of course she's not buying his Rick-the-Author act. She doesn't know him as that man.

Swallowing his panic, he pulls out a chair and settles into it. "What can I help you with?" he bumbles.

It's obviously the right question, because she stops looking at him like he's the Man from Mars and furrows her brow instead. "I wanted…" she starts hesitantly. "I needed some perspective."

He nods. "On what?"

She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. She seems to be holding her breath, he notes—whatever it is that she wants to share with him is clearly difficult for her to talk about. It makes him wonder. Is it about her mother? Or her father, perhaps? He doesn't think she's mentioned the man before. He hopes it's not about his money. He's generous with it—almost half goes into his savings for future use and almost one-fourth he spends now, but more than one-fourth is donated—and he would not hesitate to make her life easier if he could, but he'd hate to attribute her reason for contacting him after _three months_ to something that … materialistic. He'd like to think she at least liked talking to him.

"Have you ever been to college?" she blurts, and it's not what he's expecting at all.

"Uh—" he stutters in reply. An unexpected wave of sorrow crests in him. College was both the happiest and the saddest time of his life, and they were both for the same reason alone. "Yeah," he admits.

Her eyes are haunted when she looks at him, and he knows she's caught on to the sadness in his voice. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she tells him.

He wants to talk to her about it, strangely enough. He wants her to know about Kyra; wants her to know all about the beauty and the vivaciousness of his long-lost sweetheart. Wants her to know that he had entertained thoughts of long-term commitment to Kyra before she—Kyra—had ripped out his heart and used it as a step-stool to board that damned plane to London. Wants to talk about the hidden loneliness that has been his company since.

But none of that has to do with Kate and, besides, it's not entirely Kyra's fault. He'd tried to mix and mingle around with others after she left. He'd just never found someone who could compare.

So, he shoves his confessional back inside the box and does what Richard Castle does best—deflect. "Why're you asking?"

Kate twists her lips again, shifting uneasily in her seat. "I go to Stanford," she says. "I … study Pre-Law there. My mom, y'know … she was an inspiration to me. She was … one of the best civil rights attorneys around. So, I knew, ever since I was a kid, that I wanted to do Law."

She blinks furiously, chin trembling, and Rick feels a lump clog his throat. He wants to tell her to forget it, that she doesn't have to tell him; but just as he opens his mouth, she continues, "Now that she's passed away … I don't know that I wanna do Law anymore. It feels too close for comfort. And my dad and me, it's just both of us now." She swallows visibly. "He's … he's not been the same since Mom. I want to be here for him. Here in New York, y'know?"

"Right," he mumbles helplessly. The word feels horrifyingly inadequate to him, but he isn't sure what else to say. How would one have words for such a situation?

Her eyes flash to his as she gets to the bottom line. "I want to know if you think I'm making the right choice by leaving Stanford."

* * *

**A/N: **Shocked? Don't worry; so's Rick. There'll be a Part 2 to this.

_**-Soph**_


	4. Coffee Shop (Part 2)

**Coffee Shop (Part 2)**

_"I want to know if you think I'm making the right choice by leaving Stanford."_

The pronouncement sends his heart slamming into his ribs, more for shock than for any other reason. This girl is—she's asking him about her _education. _She sounds so sure about it, too; 'I want to know if you think', as if he is her mentor or her guidance counsellor—as if he has the remotest clue what to tell her. But he's … _jesus, _he's Rick Castle. He's not in the habit of pointing out to stray young ducklings the right way home. He wouldn't know how to guide a fledgling author in their writing, let alone lead to dry land a Pre-Law student whose sense of direction was ripped from her.

He plays at being a grown-up most days—puts on an adequate-enough façade at being cocky and sure of himself when he's called upon to do it—but the truth is, sometimes he still wakes up in the middle of the night and wonders if he's done the right thing with his life. How could a man like him possibly help a girl like her find her way? Does she have any idea what she's asking of him?

But then he looks up to meet her eyes—sees the torment written all over her too-youthful features—and he realizes that maybe she's aware of more than he knows. Maybe she _has _thought about it before springing this bombshell on him, but still deemed it necessary to seek his advice. And he doesn't know if that makes him feel better or worse.

"—wouldn't ask you if I knew who else to ask," she's saying by the time the roar in his ears recedes. Apparently, he'd missed out on a few of her words in his panic. She continues, "But Rick, you did the unconventional thing. You—you became a writer, and you're good at it. People respect you for that. But Dad … he thinks I'm throwing my life away."

His first reflex is to say 'Are you?', but that obviously won't help matters, so he stifles the impulse and takes a deep breath.

Focuses on reading (_listening_) between the lines, because he has an idea that Kate isn't saying all she wants to say. Yet.

He tilts his head and asks, "You've already made up your mind about leaving, haven't you?"

She blushes a deep red. Caught. "Yes," she admits, her voice small.

"But you want to know what I think, anyway?" he prods.

The colour on her cheeks, if possible, deepens. "I read your books," she says in an even smaller voice. He fails to see how that could have informed her decision, but he doesn't cut in. She continues haltingly, "I don't know how to explain this, but they've … they've given me something to _want _again. After I made up my mind not to go back to Stanford, I felt so lost. And I—" She stops, running frustrated fingers through her hair, "—I was trying to figure out what to do when I read your books."

Her eyes flick to his, almost as if deliberately setting up a slow reveal. And then, she licks her lips and says, "And I think I want to be a cop."

That last sentence leaves her in a rush and, in all honesty, he can't blame her. This information is overwhelming for him, too. This is _worse _than her asking him his opinion on leaving Stanford, not because of the life path she's choosing instead—he will hold cops in high regard to his dying breath—but because of her reason for choosing it. His _books? Really? _She wants to be a cop because of his _books?_

It makes him feel like such a fraud.

If there's never been a reason to lay trust in him as a man, how could his _books _possibly be worthy of such validation? How could she know she'd be making the right choice?

The touch of her fingertips to the back of his hand makes him startle; he's shaken out of his thoughts in time to catch the frown lines on her forehead melt away carefully. This is as hard for her to say as it is for him to hear, it seems, and a small part of him is mollified to know that he's not the only one to be twisted up inside. (But she's so much braver than him, so much better at studiously pretending it's nothing.)

"You don't have to comment on it if you don't want to," she tells him, as if she finds it _her _job to placate him, "I guess I just thought you'd have some insight to help me make sense of all of it in my head. But—" she laughs self-deprecatingly, "—it's—I'm being stupid. I'm sorry. We don't really even know each other. I—I shouldn't have asked you."

She gives him a long-suffering look, all _silly me _and _let's forget I said anything, _and he becomes aware that his stunned silence has cut her, for some reason, deeper than he'd have thought himself capable. And that thought, in turn, hurts him. So, he opens his mouth before she can flee the scene and spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Would you like another latte?"

-.-.-.-.-

Miraculously, she deigns to stay while he gets them both refills.

He does the responsible thing and thinks about how to break her heart. It's not as if he wants to hurt her—but he's only a raconteur, skilled at telling stories. He hypes up the fascinating and tones down the monotonous; skews the story to make it sell. His books are not to be abided by.

"Look, it's not that I disapprove," he tells her after he's served her her coffee and sat down with his own, "but … I'm a _writer,_ Kate. I write. I don't report. The things you read … they don't accurately reflect the truth. Y'know?"

He expects her to make the leap and understand he's telling her that reality works by a different set of rules; that reality will never measure up to fiction because fiction is filled with the wit and sparkle and mysticism that reality lacks. But she just blinks at him.

And then she says so quietly, "I'm not stupid," and he feels his cheeks heat up because it's obvious that she's far from stupid (Pre-Law at _Stanford, _for God's sake), but she's so very young and she's now a ship without a rudder, and he's not sure how far her naïveté runs that she may seek direction from his work of fiction. He only wants to do right by her.

Kate sighs. Pulls him out of his thoughts for the umpteenth time that morning. "I'm not stupid," she tells him again. "I know _Dad _thinks I am, for choosing this, but … I've thought about it a lot. And it's not like I don't realize being a cop in real life is a lot harder and a lot less glamorous than it appears in books; I just … I want to make a difference like my mom. It's simply that I don't wanna do what my mom did."

"All jobs make a difference," he observes carefully. (He didn't think his did, but if ever there were a time to revise his opinion….)

She spares him a disdainful look that has 'Don't Patronize Me' written all over it. "I _know,_" she spits out. "But I don't mean it in the way that a comedian brings laughter to people or a teacher gives children knowledge. I'm not cut out to be so _mundane. _The thing about Law that attracted me was not the paperwork, but the whole … debate inherent to it. What's right and what's wrong; what's legal and what's not; what should be and what should not. I've—I'd—seen my mom argue in court, and gosh, Rick, you should've seen her. An unstoppable fire. And that's not always as glamorous as TV makes it out to be, either, but sometimes you got these cases…." Kate tapers off, as if suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation. Her eyes grow wet once more, but she blinks it away before he can say anything.

"I want that for myself," she continues, her voice rougher now. "The conviction that I'm doing good. The _tangibility of it all. _I want to be able to look back at myself at the end of the day and say, _'I made a difference today.'_ And I want it to be because I found something for someone else in a way that I—I might never be able to find for myself. _Closure. _Is there something so wrong with that?"

He finds himself rendered speechless by her passion. Fleetingly, he thinks it a pity that he will never see her argue in court, because reflected in that moment is all the sway that she will hold over the audience. But … might have been thinking that she was too young to know what she wanted, but she's proven him wrong in the blink of an eye. She's surer of herself than he has ever been of himself. And he doesn't know what she means by the closure she might never find, but he doesn't doubt her ability to find it for others.

So, he simply asks—raspily, because damn it to hell if she hasn't moved him to pieces with her speech, "Are you sure about your decision?"

She looks almost disappointed by his response. But she nods anyway. "Yes," she tells him, and then she lowers her eyes.

She's bleeding insecurity, he realizes. He doesn't know how that could be—how someone so sure of their decision could be so unsure of telling someone else about it—but it's the one gesture that lets it all make sense in his mind. She already know what she wants, so she's obviously not _actually _here for his advice—it's something else that she wants from him.

"You have my support, then," he chances, and the smile that blooms in her eyes before it lets show on her lips tells him it's the right thing to say.

"Really?" she questions softly; hopefully. So very mature—yet so very young.

He nods, because it's true. There's no way to not be swept up by this spirit of hers; no way to not want her to succeed in whatever she wants to do; no way to not want to be there with her when she does make it. He has no idea why she's chosen him, of all people, to stand in her corner, but he won't let her down. Not when she's this fierce, smart, awesome young woman, and all she needs is someone to stand by her. He'll stand by her.

He'll be the person she counts on.


	5. Loft

**A/N: **There is a bit of a time-jump; by this chapter, Kate is already in the Academy. Also, even though I call Castle's abode a loft, it's not the loft he currently lives in :) I figured that he must have bought such a large place with the idea of forming a family with Meredith and Alexis, but since neither exists in this universe ... well, he's pretty lonely. So is his place.

_**-Soph**_

* * *

**Loft**

Rainy nights are for movie marathons. This rule, he'd set for himself early on in life—ever since he was old enough to appreciate the cinematic wonder of films. Hence, while writing was permitted on dry and quiet nights, rainy nights were reserved for movies, popcorn, and that thick blanket he loved huddling under.

Never let it be said that Richard Castle doesn't know how to enjoy life.

The slamming of the door of his loft now jolts him out of his movie-watching stupor; he glances up to see his mother—looking remarkably like a straggly wet chicken—dripping onto his hardwood floor. He raises his eyebrows as she toes off her sopping heels and squeezes the water out of her hair.

"_Wow, _Mother. I didn't think you went for that look."

His mother casts her eyes heavenwards. "Chuck turned out _not _to be the gentleman I thought he was," she snaps. "Leaves me on the sidewalk the moment it starts pouring and tells me his cab is going in the opposite direction. I don't know what I saw in him."

Rick gives a noncommittal hum as he pushes off the couch and disappears into the linen closet. He emerges with a thick, fluffy towel and hands it to his mother.

"Maybe you should reconsider the dating game," he tells her quietly as she dries herself off. "I know you say you love it, but … this is ridiculous. It's the third time this week that you've come home from a disastrous date."

His mother gives him a soft smile. "Thank you for your concern, darling, but I'll live. Life is never worth the rush if it isn't accompanied by some pitfalls."

He chuckles. Martha and her wisdom. She should consider being a life coach.

"Besides," she adds as she wraps the towel around her hair and traipses off towards her bedroom, "it's the only way I'll be getting any. I'm too young to be celibate for the rest of my life!"

Okay. Mother/son moment officially over.

"That's gross!" he yells after his purported parental figure, feeling like he's thirteen years old and getting 'The Talk' all over again. Oh-so-inappropriate.

His mother only laughs as he shudders. He waits until the door closes before he lets out a disgusted noise and treads off in search of a mop—

Only for a knock on the front door to interrupt him again.

He returns to open it, and _oh—_

It's Kate. Kate Beckett. (She'd told him the last time they met up.) And she's soaking wet, too. But so. very. hot.

He blinks away the haze that had occupied him momentarily and opens the door wider, ushering her in hurriedly. "What _happened _to you?" he asks, but she just chews on her lip and rolls a shoulder. She's shivering and possibly the slightest bit paler than she usually is, so he resists the urge to pry answers out of her and gets her a towel instead.

"My entryway is just full of soaking women tonight," he comments dryly. Kate's eyes widen—he realizes in hindsight how wrong it must have sounded. He blurts loudly, "My mother! Just—my mother. She lives here."

That sounds worse, because now he's going on thirty and still living with his mother. But Kate doesn't comment: She simply gives him back the towel and drops her hands to her sides, helpless and lost.

His heart aches for her as he reaches out to touch her forearm. "I'll get you some dry clothes," he tells her quietly, and she stares blankly at him. He swallows the lump in his throat and strides off to his room instead.

A quick search through his drawers produces a large sweatshirt for a top; and then he's stuck, unsure of what to give her for a bottom. Would she even want to change out of her shorts? She looks like she showed up—at eleven at night—in what was her sleepwear, and he's at a loss as to what could possibly possess her to do that.

In the end, he grabs a pair of boxers and hopes she doesn't mind. He'd give her something of his mother's, but she's never met Martha despite having been to his apartment twice before. Having to wear a strange woman's pants would undoubtedly be as uncomfortable to her as wearing his underwear.

He'll ask her what she prefers.

"These okay?" he asks, exiting his bedroom and holding up the items of clothing. She looks at them and nods mutely, so he passes them to her and points in the right direction, adding gently, "Bathroom's over there, if you want some privacy."

As if she _wouldn't _want some privacy.

The tiny smirk she throws him over her shoulder tells him her thoughts are along the same line, but he's just glad she's smiling now.

-.-.-.-.-

When she is finally settled on his couch with dry clothes, his blanket for extra warmth, and a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows, she speaks.

"I fired a gun for the first time today."

He chokes on his own mug of hot chocolate, and she turns teary eyes on him and continues—

"And I … I kept seeing my mother's dead body as the target."

It's a good thing he's already choking, because he feels the hot chocolate going up the wrong way. (God, he's never going to be able to drink hot chocolate again.) Bitter tangs his throat; he swallows compulsively and pushes his drink away, maybe to calm his gag reflex, maybe to buy time. After all, what would he say under these circumstances?

But Kate just keeps looking at him, her eyes darting reflexively to the doorway, her eyelids quivering under the weight of her tears but never closing fully. Her jaw is set. She's almost waiting him out, as if challenging him to back down from the horrific things she lives through; as if daring him to push her out of his home, out of his sanctuary, _how dare you say such disturbed things what's wrong with you I never want to see you again._

But he's a stubborn man and her eyes are too pleading for the mulish expression on her face to be convincing, so he does the opposite and gathers her into his arms instead. (He'd always been told he was contrary.) Kate doesn't seem to mind, though— she buries her face in his chest and brings a hand up to his sleeve and clutches furiously as she sobs.

The way she cries breaks his heart. He can feel the magnitude of her grief crashing into him in waves, pounding relentlessly; the screams torn from deep inside her un-muffled even by the solidness of his body. Over her head, he sees the door next to his bedroom's slide open; his mother peers out of the doorway, curious and alarmed. He shakes his head and she retreats, still looking perplexed by the appearance of the hysterical young woman on his couch.

Kate sags in his arms, well and truly spent, after the last of her sobs dies away. Her eyes remain open, but behind the puffiness he sees the dark circles that ring them—she has not been sleeping as well as he'd thought. He'd missed all the signs that she might not be as steady on her feet as he'd like to pretend she is, and he feels more than a little guilty about that.

How could he have let the depths of her grief go unnoticed for so long?

"Thank you," she murmurs eventually, and he looks down at her in surprise.

"For what?" he asks.

She shrugs again and draws away, already pulling on an armour before his eyes. He doesn't know when she developed it; doesn't know when she went from the girl on the plane, willing to share her pain with a stranger, to the wary and reserved young woman before him now; but it breaks his heart.

"I guess I just needed—a good cry," she says awkwardly, stiltedly. "I didn't—I know you can't help me with this, Rick. I didn't come here looking to you for a solution."

He feels a little hurt by that, but brushes it aside. "You have my support," he reminds her. "I thought you knew that."

She lowers her eyes and twists her hands in her lap. "I do," she replies softly. "But—how do you even help me with this, Rick? It's—it's not a logical problem with a clear-cut solution. It's just me and my fears and my hang-ups. It's just … my nightmares of my mother after I go to bed each night. And it got a little out of control today. That's all."

"How long has this been going on, Kate?"

Her eyes flick to his. He tries to look less grim. "A month or so," she admits. "It didn't happen at first, but shortly before I entered the Academy…"

He lets out a deep breath.

"I'm not leaving," she cuts in loudly, suddenly adamant and even a little angry. "I'm not gonna _not _be a cop—"

"I didn't say anything about that—"

"But you were thinking it, weren't you?"

"_I was not,_" he says, firmly enough that she deflates before his eyes. "I know you've been having trouble with your Dad, but you _do not _get to project his thoughts onto me, okay?"

"Sorry," she mutters, grudging but ashamed.

"But," he continues, softer now, "I think you need help."

"Help?" she asks carefully. "Like _help _help? You think I need a shrink?"

"A therapist, yes. I—"

"No." She crosses her arms. "I don't need a shrink. I'm not that damaged."

"I'm not saying you are—"

"_No!_" She stands abruptly, eyes flashing as she hovers over him."I can't afford to meet a shrink. And I'm not talking financially, even though I can't afford that, either. I just … I know what my mother's death has done to me, but I'm _not going to talk _to someone else about it."

He says nothing: He just waits. Waits for her to hear herself. She's not an unreasonable person. He knows that she will get where he's coming from eventually.

In the end, she turns to him with her eyes glimmering. "Please don't send me away," she whispers. "Please."

He's off the couch before he fully realizes it, her thin frame in his embrace before he has a chance to second-guess the act. She stands stiffly this time, hard and unforgiving against him; he presses his lips to her hair and holds onto her until she relaxes slowly.

"Never," he promises when she's comfortable in his arms. He'd never send her away. He didn't even realize the possibility existed within her head. "Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," she admits. "It's just that every time you see me, our conversations get so … hard and painful. And you know how to make me laugh, you do; but I—I'm not good company to have."

"You _are, _but even if you weren't, so what?" he retorts. She lifts her eyes questioningly to his. "You've been through a traumatic event, Kate—s'why I suggested therapy. But it's not like I thought we were gonna have a jolly good time and I'm now regretting ever being friends with you. I just thought that … if you could manage the things you feel when you're awake, then maybe the nightmares and everything else would go away."

She smiles wryly. "That sounds so idealistic."

"Well, I'm an idealistic guy," he insists. "Or I would have given up after the first fifty rejection letters I got."

She laughs and drops her head to rest it on his shoulder. "Why do I matter so much to you?" she murmurs.

His heart skips a beat. Kyra was the last person to ask him this. And he thinks that if only he had just answered her honestly, she would have stayed for him.

So, he moistens his lips and rasps, "Because I think you're remarkable, Kate. And I don't want you to forget that."

Her breath catches audibly, and he almost lets her go and runs.

But then she nuzzles her lips against his neck and tightens her own arms around his body; and even though she never looks up at him, he's suddenly feeling lighter than he has been in years.

Wow. This girl, she _is _remarkable indeed.


	6. Street

**A/N: **Before we start—please read A/N at the end; it has information pertaining to my publishing schedule. Also, Black Pawn is in LA in this AU. This will be explained later in the fic; I just wanted you to have your _wtf _moment now rather than later.

**Proceed!**

**-_Soph_**

* * *

**Street**

His foot jiggles impatiently as his eyes trace the grain of the cherry wood door. It's been an hour. She's been in there for an hour. He hasn't heard a peep from her—perhaps the room is soundproof—and even though he trusts the guy, he is nervous. She _did _break down in his arms the other night, after all.

Finally, the door opens; Kate steps out looking exhausted, but she gives him a tiny smile when she sees him. He stands and gives a nod to the man behind her, and quickly ushers Kate towards the doors that front the reception area.

"Mr Castle?" the man calls.

Rick turns.

"Remember that therapy sessions are confidential."

He laughs sheepishly, taking the gentle rebuke for the reminder it is. He's been here before, overeager in his quest to find out how therapy works only to find his questions denied answers on account that they strayed too close to violating client privacy. It's taken him a while to learn how to temper his curiosity.

But Dr Burke really has nothing to worry about—Rick only has Kate's best interests at heart. So, he acknowledges the older man with an "I will" and proceeds to lead Kate towards the exit.

Once safely outside the building, he breathes a sigh of relief and turns to Kate.

"How was it?" he asks kindly.

She shrugs. "We talked about what I expected from therapy," she says, "and what goals we could set for me to aim toward. I told him … y'know, about the nightmares and stuff, and he said we could work on that. I think it went okay. It's not like we performed any miracles in an hour."

"Well." Rick ponders that as he leads them in the direction of their favourite coffee shop. "Dr Burke _is _pretty good, but he's no instant-miracle-worker." Kate gives him a small smile in reply. Rick tilts his head and regards her. "Can I ask you a question?"

Her eyes grow wary. "Sure?"

_Please don't send me away._

"Why would you think therapy had anything to do with my talking to you or not?"

_Please._

Her cheeks flush red, and he knows she remembers that night as well as he does. It doesn't fit: She is strong—_so strong _she stood up to her father and made the decision to entirely change the course of her life three months after her mother's death—and she may have a vulnerable side which he has been privileged to see, but … she never begs him. She never says 'please', not in that sense. Her requests have always been phrased more as an invitation than a plea, but that night? She was almost terrified of losing him.

The worst part was that she hadn't been in any danger of losing him in the first place.

"I—I don't know," she stutters eventually. "It's not like I think people in therapy deserve to be isolated. But I had this moment—this whole surreal, out-of-body moment—where I saw myself turning up on your doorstep and c-crying into your arms, and it's so stupid, Rick. It was a nightmare. A really bad nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless."

"And you thought I judged you for that?" he asks, half-incredulous.

"N-no?" She stumbles to a halt on the dirty sidewalk, making him turn and face her. "It's just, our whole acquaintance is based on this one event. My mother's death. And … you're this famous author-guy who routinely goes to all sorts of events and hobnobs with the rich and famous, and I've even seen you in the tabloids from time to time because you were partyin' it up in LA while you were actually supposed to be visiting your publisher. You're the famous author-guy who took interest in me for no discernible reason … so I thought maybe you worried about the motherless kid." She stares up at him, her eyes shining. "And then you suggested therapy, and I thought maybe you didn't want to worry about me anymore."

"Kate," he breathes out.

"I don't want it to sound like I rely on you," she tells him before he can go any further. "I'm not saying you have no right to walk away. I just meant that there are people who have known me _before, _and people who know me _after, _and the people who knew me from before tell me that I used to be so-and-so person when I can no longer be that person. I needed a clean slate of a friend, and … you were that clean slate." She laughs self-consciously. "Okay, yeah, I guess I relied on you a little. But I just wanted someone to chill with who didn't care that I could no longer be … whom I used to be."

"And when I suggested therapy fresh off your waking up from a nightmare…"

"—I thought you found the _new me_ too cumbersome, too," she concludes. "Yeah."

It aches. It aches so badly. Not her distrust of him—if he'd lost someone, he'd have a hard time reacting properly to things, too—but the fact that she thinks she could at all be too much trouble for him. She's _Kate Beckett. _'Cumbersome' shouldn't even be in the list of adjectives used to describe her.

So, he reaches out and wraps a hand around her fingers. "I'm sorry I made you feel that way, Kate."

She gives him a wan smile. "It's not your fault," she answers, quietly and seriously. "You haven't given me any reason to think you _would _walk away. But I just … I don't know what you would want with me. I'm no writer. I'm no celebrity. I'm not even your peer. I—I have nothing in common with you, apart from the fact that we're both human and New Yorkers. I guess I just … keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, y'know?"

"Well, I like hopping through life on one foot, with one shoe," he assures her, and a startled laugh bubbles out of her. "Honestly, though, Kate—shouldn't it be enough that we're both human?"

He waits until she meets his eyes.

"I like you. I _really do. Like you,_" he confesses in a rush, blundering on when a shocked expression flits across her face. "And I'm not saying this because it's at all relevant to the topic at hand. You're right, we have nothing in common, and I would never be so presumptuous as to ask you…. But I like you, as a person. As a friend. I think you're extraordinary, Kate, and I'd like to get to know you better—even just as a friend. Because the first time we met, and you carried out an entire conversation with me without telling me you already knew who I was? That was … different. And it intrigued me. And I wanted to know what else about the world you already knew which you had never told anyone about."

He stops, breathing hard, shaken after his speech, and she just stares wordlessly at him.

And _damn, _he's said too much, just like he always does. He's a man of extremes—either too willing to share or too unwilling—and everything about her screams _measured _and _temperate, _and he's just scared her. He's scared her. What girl wouldn't be scared by the clumsy non-advances of a man encroaching on thirty and still living with his mother; a man so skilled and well-versed at working a social scene—currying favours and fostering camaraderie out of necessity—but who is a closet loner when no one's looking for him because no one _ever _looks for him?

Yeah, he's a damn catch, alright.

_Shit, Rick. You should've just kept your fat mouth shut._

He drops her hand like a hot potato and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Forget I said anything," he says, "if you can. Look, bottom line: You might think I'm a famous writer with connections everywhere, but the fact is, most nights, I'm just at home playing video-games. Or watching movies. I—I'm not that image you have of me in your head. And I don't know what that means to you. But for what it's worth," he lowers his hand and looks at her, "If you _ever _thought I might find myself too good for you … don't. Because I'm just a regular guy, Kate. And … I like hanging out with you."

Lamest ending ever. But it's about as temperate as he can get whilst still speaking the truth.

She just keeps staring at him, though. And blinking. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then she goes for his jugular. "What do you mean, what that means to me?"

"Uhm," he mumbles, "nothing. Just that maybe you think Author Guy is cooler than Video Game Guy."

Ugh. He sickens himself. _'_Cooler', really? What is he, still in high school?

And then she actually laughs at steps back: Mortified, humiliated, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He barely registers the catch of her fingers around his wrist—it takes her calling his name to focus his attention back on her.

"I _just _went through the speech about how I thought Author Guy might ditch me," he hears her say. "Did you honestly think that if I had access to the side of you which let me in, I would have passed that up?"

"L-Let you in?" he stumbles.

"Yeah," she answers softly. "I'd been to your apartment twice before, and not once had you mentioned another person living there. You wouldn't even have told me that night if it hadn't come up, would you?"

Oh. He hadn't thought she had enough presence of mind to remember that.

"It never came up?" he tries.

"True," she concedes. "But the point still stands, Rick: I don't know much about you, while you know about my mum and my dad and my ambitions. You _just _waited outside a therapist's office for me. You don't think it's a little intimidating to me that you could ask me about my nightmares and I'd probably tell you, but I don't know anything about you other than that you're a writer? You don't think it's crossed my mind that you could be the kindest man on Earth, but your reluctance to let me in meant that you were still looking to cut ties?"

Oh. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"I don't want you to be sorry," she tells him quietly. "I just want a friendship that means at least as much to someone else as it does to me."

"It does," he promises, his voice rough. _Even more so._

A smile quirks the apples of her cheeks; infuses her with a shade of pink that sends his heart fluttering. "Okay," she replies simply. "Then I trust you."

And look at that.

_She trusts him._

* * *

**A/N: **Alright, guys. Come Thursday of next week, I'll be flying to the UK for my masters studies :) since there's a lot of packing and flying and settling in to be done, you likely won't hear from me for another two to three weeks. If I _do _get a chapter written, I'll post it, but otherwise, I hope you understand. And on that note, please review :)

**A/N 2: **As you all understand, Rick doesn't live in the same apartment here, so I took the liberty of constructing Rick's AU loft ... BECAUSE I COULD, lol. (And yes, virtual home design was already a hobby of mine ... I'm not that crazy. Yet.) Would any of you be interested in seeing it? I have a few pictures on Twitter, but I could take a few more and make it into a set on Tumblr, if you would. Otherwise ... eh, never mind. Let me know!

_**-Soph**_


	7. Apartment

**Apartment**

Ever since that night she came to him after that nightmare, he's taken it upon himself to check up on her. They don't meet up every single day; sometimes they meet once a week, sometimes twice. Sometimes thrice. Sometimes not at all. But on the days that they haven't hung out together, he calls her.

Their conversations are fairly innocuous—she's usually studying, practising mock tests, or doing her chores, and she'll complain to him about her father, who's never home. He complains (or pretends to, because his life is better than it's ever been) to her about his mother or his publisher or his books. The little things. It's not quite letting her _in _yet but it's not _not _letting her in, either, and he hopes that's enough for her for now. (He's saving the proper stuff for … well. Hopefully, someday? When it makes sense for him to tell her about ex-girlfriends and the failures in his career and the numerous hurts from his childhood.)

Their conversations don't chase away her nightmares, but he hopes they serve as a counterpoint, anyway, to remind her that he's always there for her. She's too stubborn—won't call him in the middle of the night because she's afraid of disrupting his sleep despite the fact that he's told her he doesn't go to bed until she's already up and starting the day—so this is what he relies on. Snatched phone calls late in the evening, filled with nothing other than the meaningless and the insipid, that he hopes will tide her through her haunting reality.

It helps her, he thinks. No matter what mood she's in when she picks up the phone—sad, grumpy, angry, scared, or neutral—she always sounds calmer and happier by the time they hang up. So, he thinks it helps her, at least marginally.

Until the one time he calls, and she's in a bar, drinking.

-.-.-.-.-

He thinks it must be the single most presumptuous act he's ever done to her—

—but he goes and drags her out of the bar. Initially, it takes a lot of charming to get the bartender to even believe that they know each other, but Kate's reluctant corroboration eventually gets them out the door.

He smuggles them into his car and breathes a sigh of relief. Kate may have a really good fake ID, but if she'd been seen by one of her classmates or trainers from the Academy, her future would have been ruined.

He leaves her to stew in her thoughts as he drives her home. He doesn't know if she's regretful, in a tipsy haze, or just plain mad at him, but he doesn't think a car conversation would do them any good.

She only jolts out of her reverie when he pulls into a spot in front of her apartment building, and she almost pries the door handle off on her way out of the car. (Mad at him, then.) He turns off the ignition and follows her. She holds the elevator for him—despite the fact that she still won't look at him—and the impatient tap of her heeled foot against the tiled floor suggests that she finds him to be moving too slowly, but he ignores her churlish behaviour and lumbers into the little carriage at his own pace. She huffs and turns her back to him.

Once at her apartment, she unlocks her front door with vengeful zeal and stomps inside. The loud _flumph _of her body onto the couch serves as punctuation to her emotions.

_Wow._

He didn't think she still had that teenager-ish side to her.

"You had no right," she snarls at him, arms crossed and teeth snapping, once he closes the door.

He regards her quietly; stands still and waits until he sees the fierce light in her eyes waver. And then, he speaks. "You're correct," he tells her. "I'm not your parent. I'm not your partner. I haven't even known you for that long. But here's what I do know: You're 19 and you're aiming to be a cop. Is going to a bar really the best solution, Kate?"

She purses her lips. "They wouldn't have found out."

"Like hell they wouldn't." He scrubs a hand across his forehead. "I'm just surprised they _haven't _before now."

She glances reflexively up at him, startled.

"You really didn't think I'd guess you'd been before?" he questions wryly. "If there's once, there're bound to have been other times. Except you told me months ago that you wouldn't do it again, Kate."

"I said I'd _try,_" she mutters.

"Fine." He feels the abrasive burn of anger creep up his neck. He throws his car keys onto the couch, where she flinches. "Then I give up. I'm not your keeper, Kate. I could go a hundred rounds with you about why illegal drinking _when you're in the Academy _is a bad idea, but the truth is, I don't think you'd listen. You're a headstrong girl—you know what you want and you'd stop at nothing to get it. That's what would make you a good cop. But I have no right. And even though I'm the kinda guy who would drag his friends out of bars to keep them out of trouble, I couldn't do anything you didn't want me to. So why don't you just let me know if you'd like me to take you back to that bar? Just don't expect me to pick you up again. Ever."

She lowers her head. The silence stretches on—

—And on—

—And on until he finally caves and goes to squat in front of her.

"Kate," he starts gently.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs.

"Don't be. You don't owe me an apology."

She lifts her head, her eyes wide and fearful and _damnit, _she's such a fragile young thing—so wanting for guidance and attention. Rick doesn't even know if her father's home. Surely, if the man were, he would have shown himself by now?

Rick sighs and leans forward to cup her cheek. "It's your life, Kate. Your choice."

"But you're _mad._"

"Yeah, but not because you offended me. Rather because I think you have more potential than to be looking for your future at the bottom of the glass. You're not in college anymore, y'know. Some things might be cool at a frat party, but out here in the real world? People would hang you out to dry faster than you can blink. And you gotta realize that if someone from the Academy had seen you and recognized you, then chances are, you just made your future as a cop a _whole lot harder _to achieve."

She sniffles. "I understand."

"And I know I'm not—I'm not particularly cool or smart or wise, so maybe you can't figure out why my words should carry any weight. But I said I'd support you. This is me, supporting you. I can only hope that's enough, Kate."

She looks away shamefully, a quick hand barely grazing the skin underneath her eye. "In another week, it'll be my birthday," she confesses on a soft sigh. "Sometimes, it's just the small things that are a trigger—a birthday, or Easter, or Mother's Day. Those are the times I remember I can't celebrate with my mom, y'know? And I mean, I didn't _always _anyway, especially after I went away to college, but—" She swallows. "It's just striking me that my mom will never get to celebrate another one of my birthdays. I never got one of those big birthday bashes, but she always loved—loved celebrating _me. _She'd come bursting into my room at six in the morning, screaming 'happy birthday', even when I groaned at her to let me sleep. And we'd go out for dinner every time, without fail—you don't know _how many times _she's embarrassed me with that whole singing-waiter-carrying-birthday-cake-through-the-restaurant thing. And—and she won't get to do that anymore.

"And it's just struck me how many more things she won't get to see, y'know? My graduation—if I'd stayed in law school—or passing the bar or becoming a lawyer. My wedding. Her first grandchild. All these things that she could have been proud of … but now she's dead and _none of these _will mean anything to her anymore. And I'm thinking that for the first nineteen years of my life, I never gave her enough to be proud of."

Oh, Kate.

It's almost painful, watching her. She's trying so hard to be brave and strong: Her jaw fixed determinedly, her eyes shiny, the furrow of her brow deep trenches against her tormented skin. But she doesn't cry, not really.

He gives in and slides up onto the couch, pulling her in close to him. She keeps her legs tucked against her own body, but she clutches his shirt hard and rests her forehead against his shoulder, and almost immediately he feels the hot, wet impatience of her tears permeate his skin. Her breaths come loud and choked, tearing mercilessly against his heartstrings. But he doesn't interrupt her; he just sits and strokes her hair, letting her work through her grief on her own.

And when her sobs quiet, she starts to laugh.

He jerks back and stares at her.

There's nothing _remotely _funny about the situation, but she's holding her sides, clutching onto them as if she might split them if she laughs any harder, and it scares him. "What?" he asks in alarm, and she just shakes her head and wipes her eyes as if they're at a comedy club and he's given the world's best punchline.

"It's ridiculous," she gasps eventually. "I had Rick Castle haul me out of a bar for underage drinking. Jesus, what would my mother have said if she were alive?"

The mention sobers her.

"I'm not usually … this person," she admits on another tired sigh. "Before my mom—… I was Rebel!Becks. That's what they called me. The girl who dated some grunge rocker just to spite her parents; who used up all her savings on a Harley because she could…. You couldn't have paid me to get out of that bar _before, _if you'd tried. But now I have a future pinned on toeing the line. Everything's changed, Rick. And the worst part is I probably wouldn't have realized it if you _hadn't _dragged me out of that bar."

She glances beseechingly up at him. "How do I cope with this?" she pleads. "I—I don't feel ready to grow up. I don't feel ready to be on my own yet. I feel like I'm in over my head, and I just lost my mom, and I'm going adrift."

He nudges her. "That's why you have me," he tells her gently, and a tentative smile twists her lips. "Seriously, though? You woulda realized it, eventually. Maybe later rather than sooner. But you would've realized it, and you would've straightened yourself out, and you'd have found your own way. That's who you are. You never needed me to tell you to be a cop, but you found something to do with your life that didn't involve being a lawyer, didn't you?"

She flushes. "If only after reading your books," she interjects meekly.

"The books may have inspired you, but they didn't create you. I seem to recall someone telling me she wasn't stupid enough to believe in fiction _anyway,_" he teases.

A small laugh escapes her. "Thank you," she whispers, fingers inching over to squeeze his hand. "I don't—I feel a little like … someone's pulled the rug out from under my feet, these days. And it helps that you believe in me."

"Always, Kate," he reassures her solemnly.

She tips into him then, head shifting to find a dry spot on his chest and hand scratching across his stomach to curl around his side. Oh, she's—_oh. _It warms him. Maybe a lot more than it should, especially when he doesn't have the answer to every problem she could ever face. But she's cuddling him and she trusts him _so much _and she's grateful that he believes in her. He matters to her. That's not a new thing.

But this is the moment he decides—what they have?

It's gonna carry them through.

* * *

**A/N: **Here we go! I know posting the day before the premiere is a little late, and you've in all probability lost interest, but I've been finding adapting to a new culture harder than I expected. So, things were a little fuzzy for a moment. But I hope you find this chapter satisfactory, and as promised, here is Rick's loft:

anonymous033 dot tumblr dot com slash post/98665872017/ricks-loft-apartment-from-meet

_**-Soph**_


	8. Martha

**Martha**

_Flowers._

No, scratch that. Kate wouldn't like that.

She wouldn't, right? They're so totally clichéd.

_Try again._ _Chocolates._

Hah! What a joke. As if she'd even want chocolates from him. He doesn't even know what kind of chocolate she likes.

What could she accept from him? Jewellery?

It's a pretty good bet she doesn't mind jewellery—he's seen that picture of her with a lip ring on her mantelpiece and been surprised that her strict parents even put it up—but that doesn't mean she would like it if he were to give her a necklace or earrings. His idea of jewellery is a lot more elegant. And expensive in an understated way. And for all he knows, she could reject it as an attempt to turn her into someone she's not.

This is a mess. He is a mess. He is taking a risk where he knows not its benefit, and he could very well be selfishly betraying her trust in him all for the chance to be the one to woo her when she hasn't even given him any indication of wanting him to. He's even _told _her that he could never be that presumptuous. But here he is—

The door behind him opens with a click, and he glances briefly over his shoulder to see his mother sashaying out in a colourful silk bathrobe and with a cocktail in hand.

"Mother, it's nine in the morning!" he exclaims, scandalized.

"I know, my darling, and there's nothing like a little tropical flavour to kick-start the day," his mother singsongs back. "Meanwhile, what are you doing up?"

It _is _a fairly early time for him to be up and still at home rather than at a meeting or with Kate, so the question is valid. He sighs and leans back in his stool, running a tired hand through his brown locks. "I'm trying to think of what to do for Kate's birthday," he admits.

"Kate? The girl who was here the other night?" his mother quizzes.

"Yeah, that's her."

"Oh." The martini is placed carefully onto the white quartz kitchen counter at which he sits, and Martha slips onto the stool beside him. "What is your deal with her?"

"She's … she lost her mother." He drops his head. "And there is no 'deal' with her. I'm just offering her social support."

Martha furrows her brow. "And this support includes celebrating her birthday?"

"Well, yeah." Rick shrugs, fingering a corner of the paper on which he's written down his (lack of) birthday celebration ideas. "I don't want her to be alone and miserable on her birthday."

His mother hums. "You like her."

She probably expects him to deny it. He always denies it. But it doesn't feel right, not when it comes to Kate. "I do," he answers solemnly. "I really do. And that's bad. Because … she's so young, Mother. She has her whole life ahead of her. And I'm … stuck in this rut that I've been in since Kyra. I'm old and I'm jaded, and she deserves someone much better than me. But I want it to be me."

"Oh, Richard." His mother sighs. "I had no idea. You usually never hold back; you'd tell me everything from where you met the girl to what the colour of her hair is. But you never mentioned Kate."

"She isn't the type of person who can just be _mentioned._"

"Nonsense," Martha huffs. "_Everyone _is the type of person who can just be mentioned; it is the person doing the mentioning—or lack thereof—who makes the difference. But you haven't felt this deeply since Kyra, and that's why you haven't mentioned Kate. Am I right?"

He laughs self-deprecatingly. "I don't want you to be right about this."

"She must be a remarkable young woman," Martha murmurs. The reason for her comment is clear: Though hardly a playboy, Rick has had his fair share of experience in dating both before and after Kyra—and he's never been uncertain about where he stands with them. He's never been shy to share his thoughts about them with his mother. But he's never wanted more than casual dating with them, either, and he's not entirely sure that's _all _he wants with Kate.

"She's extraordinary," he blurts. "She's … so beautiful. And she was a mess when I first met her—crying on a plane ride home—but you should see her _strength, _Mother. She's—three months into her mother's death, she's deciding she wants to be a cop, and she's going out and doing what she needs to get it every. single. day. She wows me more than anyone I've ever met, and I've met a lot of people."

"Have you talked to her about how you feel?" Martha asks quietly, and his stomach twists suddenly. Loving Kate is so hard.

"I might have brought it up," he mumbles. "Just in passing. But it's not right, Mother. I'm supposed to be supporting her. I'm supposed to be someone she can count on. I can't betray her trust in me by making her take _my _wishes into consideration—"

"Richard, listen to me." His mother lays an arresting hand on his arm. "Mutual trust and support? That is something _every _relationship must have, no matter the nature of the relationship. The question here is not whether Kate considers you—if she doesn't, then I would suggest you leave, because there is already something wrong with the equation—but _how _she considers you: Whether as a friend, or something more. And that is what you need to clarify."

"How do I do that without breaking us?" he asks plaintively.

"By taking a leap of faith," his mother simply tells him. "You used to be such a confident boy before Kyra left. You nudged your way into that girl's life fearlessly; never hesitated to take her out on a date or charm her or spoil her. You would already know what you wanted to do for her birthday _months _before the date—no need to sit here with ideas that you've crossed out numerous times. Even her witch of a mother could not stop you from seeing her."

"I was ready to _marry _her."

"And that was the problem, was it not?" Martha points out softly. "She didn't consider you as much as you considered her, thereby breaking your heart, and the idea that Kate might be the same way terrifies you. But I think it's better to find out now, rather than later. And if Kate does care about you, then it doesn't matter how you carry out this conversation. She will find a way to preserve what you have, no matter whether it's in the way you wish it to be."

"But I can't put her at a disadvantage by making her decide, Mother."

"Then give her the advantage of getting to decide at all," his mother declares. "She's hardly stupid, if your description of her is anything to go by. I know you worry—that she's just lost her mother; that it might not be the right time for you to bring up such things. These are legitimate worries, and I'm _so _very proud of you for thinking of them. But they are needlessly tearing you up inside. For one, I am sure Kate is intelligent enough to make her own decision. For another, even if she weren't, I don't doubt in your ability to have recognized that by now and taken it as a sign to tread carefully. You're no fool either, Richard. You would know better than to even think about a relationship with someone who could only be hurt by your actions."

Rick sighs.

"So, perhaps the question now," his mother continues, "is whether you have enough faith in her that she will be able to make the right choice by herself, no matter what that may be?"


	9. Café

**Café**

This time, he's the one waiting for her. He calls her up and invites her to a nearby café; before she gets there, he orders a hot chocolate and sits nursing it while staring at the abstract art the drizzling rain streaks across the window.

The tinkle of the bell above the door brings him back into the room, and he turns to see Kate stepping in, her gaze roving across the café to find him. The smile that quirks her lips when she does robs him of his breath—he is momentarily stunned. And petrified. Because if this somehow doesn't work out, and she is insulted by what he has to say, then he will have lost the most beautiful person in his life.

He can't bear to imagine that.

So, he shoots her a quick, wavering smile and shifts a little in his seat; looks down into his mug of hot chocolate and doesn't raise his head until she's draped her bright red trench coat over the back of the chair opposite him and sat down in it.

"Hey," she greets him warmly.

"Hi," he says brightly. "Coffee?"

There's an almost imperceptible pause. "Uh, sure," she answers with a bemused smile.

He waves a server over, rattling off an order for a latte with two pumps of vanilla syrup before the teenaged boy can even retrieve a pencil. An innocuous question from the boy about whether they would like some food makes him reel.

He can't believe he's forgotten about lunch.

He _invited _Kate to have lunch. But in the midst of his swirling thoughts, he's forgotten the fact that such a thing as food exists, and he would probably have sent Kate off to her afternoon classes on nothing but coffee and an empty stomach.

_Shit. Afternoon classes._

He's picked a day Kate has class.

"Just a chicken sandwich for me, please," Kate tells the server, pulling Rick out of his panic, "and … a cheeseburger for him?"

Rick can only nod affirmatively.

The server leaves, and the writer sinks into his chair, already feeling discouraged. He can't do this.

"Are you okay?" Kate asks. "You seem a little distracted."

"Um, yeah." He offers her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "How was your morning?"

"Interesting," she replies, and then proceeds to tell him about one of the recruits who got into trouble with one of the instructors for doing something that shouldn't have been done. He isn't really listening, but her voice keeps his anxiousness at bay for a while. The food and coffee come; Kate finishes her story and takes a huge gulp from her cup, and he wonders how she doesn't scorch her throat.

Then, she puts her cup down and smiles at him. "How about you?"

He curls his fingers tightly around the ceramic handle of his mug. The steam from the liquid is long gone; the drink is probably tepid by now, but he downs half of it at once, anyway. It doesn't wash away the tightness in his throat. When he puts the mug down, Kate chuckles. "What?" he asks.

She gestures with her index finger. "Chocolate moustache."

He brushes hurriedly at his mouth.

She rolls her eyes. "Seriously, Rick. What's wrong?"

(The churning in his stomach has to be from the hot chocolate, right?)

"B-birthday," he stutters. "I called you here to discuss your birthday."

The light in her eyes dims. "Oh."

Damn, he's screwing up already. He shouldn't have started with that. That was his opening line, _really?_ He used to have game. He still has game. But just not with Kate.

He hunches a little and continues staring into his mostly empty mug.

"Well, what about my birthday?" she prompts softly.

"Forget it," he murmurs. "It's—it's stupid. It's nothing."

"It's you. You never come up with stupid ideas."

He laughs at that. "Well, this one is stupid."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

"That's kinda a clichéd response, y'know," he informs her. A cautious peek at her shows that she's smiling and shaking her head at him.

"Cut the crap, Rick."

So, he sighs. Etches a pattern into the wood of the table and says, "I was wanting to ask you on a date."

A gasp is heard from across the table.

"But y'know," he hastens to add, "it's a stupid idea. It's your birthday, Kate, and I won't sully it like that."

"A date?" She repeats irrelevantly, clearly having missed his latter remark.

"Yeah," he mumbles. "With candles and all. Which is stupid, because—"

"A romantic date?"

He finally gets exasperated enough to lift his head. "_Yes,_" he enunciates. That is about as far as he gets, though, because the expression on Kate's face —it's shocked. It's confused. But it's oddly hopeful. It makes him feel a little hopeful. (And very much confused.)

Eventually, she lowers her eyes, a pretty blush colouring her cheeks. "Wow. I don't know what to say."

He inhales deeply and gives a single nod. "You really don't have to say anything, y'know. I just, I thought of it, and—"

"Now you think it's stupid?"

"Yeah." He grimaces. "No. I don't know,Kate. It's like I said, I'd never ask you out without—without having thought it through. Our friendship does mean more to me than that. But I really do like you, Kate. And … I'm sorry for that, I guess."

He feels a little bit like crying. It's humiliating.

"Why are you sorry for that?"

He rubs his eyes tiredly. "Because it doesn't work that way between us," he clarifies. "We're best friends. And you're going through a rough patch. And the _last _thing you could want is for me to complicate things by asking this of you."

"The way I understand it, you're not asking anything of me," she responds dryly. It must be an attempt at humour, he supposes. But he doesn't feel like laughing.

"And I won't," he says adamantly. "Not until you figure things out. Not until you figure out what you want."

"Well, y'know, I can't choose an option that's not there," she tells him lightly.

His gaze snaps to hers. "What are you saying?"

It's her turn to look away, her fingers twisting together before she replies. "Not now," she answers decisively. "I'm saying 'not now'. But I'm not saying 'never'."

His brows pull together. "Kate—" he starts, but doesn't end. _Kate, don't string me along. Kate, don't jerk me around. Kate, you could do much better than me. _But he'd be a fool to utter any of those remarks. And he's not a selfless person. _Kate, I don't deserve you._

"And now you're wondering how to tell me you don't think even considering you is the right choice," she concludes.

Oh. He must be more predictable than he realizes.

With a sigh, she leans forwards. "Rick—tell me something?"

"Anything," he promises, besotted idiot that he is.

"Why did you even tell me this if you didn't want me to say 'yes'?"

'Because you asked'is the first juvenile response that pops into his mind, but he bites his tongue and tries to give her the truth. "Because I needed you to know," he says at last. "I guess I—I don't need or expect you to say 'yes', but … this colours everything I do, and I need you to know. Knowledge for knowledge's sake, y'know?"

"What does that mean?" she asks, looking uncertain for the first time. "That we can't hang out anymore if I don't go on a date with you?"

"No!" he blurts. "No, _never. _I said I'd support you, Kate, and I will. That was _never _the question here. I just … wanted to share something with you, and it was never my intention to make you uncomf—"

"Okay, okay," Kate cuts him off, both hands patting the air as if the gesture would soothe him. It doesn't help much. "I get it. I do."

"I didn't want to change things between us," he utters wretchedly. "But I clearly suck at keeping things the same. I'm so sorry, Kate."

She clicks her tongue quietly. "Stop saying you're sorry."

He shuts up. He isn't doing a very good job of explaining himself, anyway.

"You keep beating yourself down," she continues, "and I don't know how to help with that, because I'm struggling with issues of my own and I'm barely keeping myself afloat. But I need you to know that I really, really value what we have, Rick, and I'm not gonna throw it away so easily. I'm not gonna give up on it just because you tried to ask me out."

He looks away sheepishly, feeling chastised. "It wasn't meant to be only an attempt," he admits. "I was going to sweep in here and woo you and make it impossible for you to say 'no'."

"What changed your mind?"

"I saw you," he says. "In your Academy uniform and that damned trench coat. And all the nerves just came back. You're … somethin' else, Kate. And maybe in another world, I could've been confident enough to woo you, but in this world … I don't have much to offer you. I've been a successful author for so long, but I'm still the guy who accidentally books plane tickets in the wrong class and whose publisher is in California because no one in New York wants to give him the light of day and whose only meaningful relationship is with his mother. I'm no one. I'm on book covers across the country, but I'm no one. Helping you is the _best thing _I've ever done, and I couldn't live with myself if I destroyed us because I was selfish enough to want something from you that you shouldn't have to give. You deserve better than me. And I didn't want to tell you about my feelings for you, but it was so hard keeping it all to myself…"

He trails off, and she stretches her hand across the table. At her urging, he extends his own hand and captures her fingers; she stands and tugs until he rises as well. "I have something to show you," she says gently. "C'mon."

"What? No," he answers, bewildered. "We haven't even eaten, and you have class in thirty minutes."

"Eh. I can skip it." She shrugs, already facing the door.

"No," he says more firmly, making her turn back to look at him. "No. I can't let you do this for me, Kate. I—we've just been through this. I'm not gonna let you sacrifice the progress you're making for some _fancy _I have."

She looks taken aback by his statement, but he's determined to stand his ground.

In the end, she caves. "After class?" she asks as a compromise. "'Cause I really wanna show this place to you. Do you think we could meet up here again in four hours?"

He hesitates. "Sure," he agrees.

"Okay, then." She leans in, ghosting a kiss across his cheek. He shivers, surprised, at the feeling. "In the meantime—don't overthink things, Rick. The last thing I need is to spend four hours of class worrying about you pacing a hole through the floor because you're wondering whether the place I'm taking you to is where I'll be killing you and burying you without leaving behind any evidence."

It's a rather morbid joke, but it makes him laugh and relax a little. "Okay," he concedes. She takes that as a cue to return to her seat, where she immediate digs into her sandwich—obviously pressed for time—and he feels bad for that. But she winks at him and pushes his plate towards him, and then calls the teenaged boy over to request another hot chocolate 'for Rick', and it makes the writer smile.

This particular mug, he might even enjoy.

* * *

**A/N: **Any guesses about where she's going to take him? It's really not rocket science. It might also deviate from canon; I'm not entirely sure...

**A/N 2: **I've left a lot of reviews, both to this fic and to my newest one-shot, unanswered, but rest assured that I will catch up eventually (_and guest reviewer, I use British English spelling, in case that escapes you_). I'm just getting into the hang of things around here :)


	10. Swings (Part 1)

**Swings (Part 1)**

Four hours come and go. Before Rick knows it, it's five forty-five in the evening, and Kate still hasn't shown up. The rain outside has long stopped, but it's getting dark, and he's starting to worry. Not just because he can't help remembering her mother and the way Johanna Beckett had died, but also because of the conversation he had had with Kate. What if his words have pushed her to her limits, and she's now trying to avoid him, or worse?

He glances quickly at his empty coffee cup. He's long overstayed his welcome: The café staff are staring openly at him. They had been very accommodating the first three hot chocolates and the subsequent cup of coffee he had ordered, and he had tried to keep them that way by ordering two slices of cake to go along with the drinks, but his increasing antsy-ness doesn't put the other patrons at ease, and he's taking up a table where countless customers could have enjoyed a main meal and left by now.

Throwing a stack of bills onto the table, he stands and grabs his coat. He's just pushing his way out the door when he crashes into something tiny but solid and, of course, it's Kate.

"Hey!" she gasps, looking flustered and perplexed by the encounter. "I'm _so _sorry. One of my instructors asked me to stay back, and—wait. Do you have somewhere to go? Is that why you're out here?"

"N-no," he stammers. "I was—I was just gonna look for you."

"But I said we were meeting up inside." She doesn't sound accusatory; just confused.

"I know, but then almost an hour had gone by, and…" He doesn't want to say it. Doesn't want to say that he's been a little worried. Doesn't want to say that he's been a little insecure, because he doesn't know where they stand and he doesn't want it to be like it'd been with Kyra—dates and moments inexplicably forgotten and getting farther and fewer between until everything stopped altogether. He'd been so _blindsided _by the break up. But he can't tell it to Kate, because he doesn't know how she feels about what he's _already _told her, let alone what he might still tell her. So, he shuts his mouth.

Kate seems to get it, though. She reaches out and grasps his wrist. "My phone died," she gives as explanation. One hand pulls out her phone and taps over the rectangular buttons in illustration—the screen remains black. He appreciates the demonstration, but it saddens him that she thinks he might need proof in order to believe her. (He hates himself for the twinge of relief the proof gives him.) She continues, "Otherwise, I would have called you."

"I know," he mumbles again.

She looks at him askance, but says nothing. Instead, she loops her arm around his and begins to lead him down the street. He wants to ask her where they're going, but he bites his tongue. The least he could do is trust her _now._

-.-.-.-.-

As it turns out, the place they go to is a set of swings.

In a random park.

He stands before one of the seats and looks around him; there is nothing extraordinary about his surroundings, nothing eye-catching or unusual or mystical enough that she could have wanted to show it to him. So, it must be the swing set that she is introducing him to.

He gives her a puzzled look, and she chuckles up at him from one of the seats.

"Sit," she invites. He does. Then she tells him, "My mother used to bring me here when I was having problems."

"Oh," he answers stupidly.

She snickers lightly. "I don't know if you can tell, but I used to be a really rebellious person. Only kid, y'know? My parents loved me, but I used to feel so sheltered. _So overprotected. _And it _sucked, _because I'm smart—I know I'm smart—and I prided myself on thinking I was independent and I thought I could take care of myself. So, I fought back whenever I thought they were trying to control me too much."

He doesn't know how to respond to that. He didn't see much of his mother until he was college-aged, and though he doesn't resent Martha for it, he still can't relate.

"Inevitably, I'd screw up," Kate continues, humour to her tone. "A boyfriend my parents disapproved of would turn out to really be a jerk; a party I snuck out to would make me feel miserable the next morning; and there was a time when I tried to highlight my hair blue and it turned out _disastrous—_let's just say Maddie went a bit overboard with the hair dye. But yeah, I'd rebel, and it didn't always work out in my favour. And when it didn't, my mom would bring me here."

He nods quietly.

"It was the only way we could get away from Dad." Her eyes twinkle. "It was _our spot._"

"But you brought me here," he blurts before he can stop himself. She looks mildly surprised by his comment.

"Well, yeah," she answers. "My mom—unlike you, she's not … she wasn't a maestro with words. She didn't always have the right thing to say to make it _okay _again; sometimes I'd stomp away in the middle of our conversation. But she tried because she wanted me to be happy and she wanted to make things a little easier for me. And … I want us to try."

He stares at her. (She wants them to try? Like she and her mother had?)

"Think of it as Vegas, if you must," Kate adds teasingly. "What happens here stays here. If you want it to."

"I can't do this to you," he utters, dismayed. "Kate, I can't—your mother—she's—geez, this is your memory with her. It's bad enough that I'm taking away your birthday—"

"Hey, hey," she cuts into his monologue. "I'm not asking you to _take away _from anything. I'm asking you to _add to._"

"Kate, this is your _mom._"

"And this is my _life,_" she counters, abruptly fierce. Even in his haze of emotions, he registers the wet gleam to her eyes. "_I _decide what I want in it. _I _decide whether I want to bring you here. And what I want _you _to decide now is whether you want to be here or not. There is no 'should' or 'should not' here, Rick. There are only absolutes. Decide now. Yes or no?"

He swallows. "Y-yes."

"Okay." Just like that, she calms down, her chest heaving as she releases the death grip she has on the metal chains attached to her seat. Her voice is rough as she tells him, "I can't disengage you from my mom, Rick. You were there when I was flying home. You dragged me out of that bar after her funeral. You were the one I went to when I had a nightmare…" She trails off, a hand brushing her cheek. "But I need to know if that's all you see when you look at me. Because I already have one person in my life thinking like that—that I'm _nothing more _than a facsimile of my mother—and if you can only see me in relation to my mom, then I'm sorry: I can't do this. I can't be my dead mother's daughter forever. It _hurts _so bad."

She sucks in a shuddering breath at the end of her speech, more hurt by his carefulness with her than he could have guessed. In the end, her reticence to look at him is what prompts him to speak up.

"Why did you bring me here?"

A sad smile curls the corner of her lips. "Because I still love my mom," she answers him. "And I don't want it to be that I move on by making myself forget her. I want to find justice for her someday, y'know? But I also want … to care about her and still care about others at the same time. Maybe it makes me selfish; I don't know. At any rate, I brought you here because I thought—I thought we could make new memories out of the old ones."

His eyes fall shut. "I see," he whispers. It moves him, her reason. But that doesn't automatically translate into his knowing how to tell her all about his troubles.

"Rick," she says, her voice shaky. He opens his eyes. "You said you liked me. And when we hang out … I feel like _I matter. _But if all you see in me is Johanna Beckett's half-orphaned daughter, then I need to know now."

_It's not that, _he wants to say. He can sense her giving up on him, and that frightens him. In the end, he inhales deeply and speaks.

"There was this girl in college," he begins. "Her name was Kyra."

* * *

**A/N: **Hope you're all still enjoying the story :) there are a couple of reviews to this fic that I still haven't replied to, but I'll be doing that right after I update this chapter. So, if I still haven't replied to your reviews to the previous chapters in a few minutes' time and you'd like a reply, let me know; it's possible I missed out on a review or two :P

**A/N 2: **There is a Part 2 to this, obviously. Since I missed last weekend's update, I'll try and upload it on Monday or Tuesday, but I make no promises. You'd think that with only two days of taught study a week, I'd have a lot of free time on my hands, but you'd be _wrooooong _o.o


	11. Swings (Part 2)

**Swings (Part 2)**

"There was this girl in college," he begins. "Her name was Kyra."

The stillness of the air sounds loudly in his ears. Kate remains in her seat, waiting for him to continue. "She was my first long-term girlfriend," he says. "I was with her for three years. We broke up somewhere around the beginning of senior year of college."

He dips his head, his hands fidgeting nervously. It's a bad habit that he's been trying to correct, but he can't help it right now. Aside from his mother, who experienced the events in real time, no one knows about the story of Kyra. He holds his memory of the girl sealed away in a crypt buried far underground, because she is the only one he had given all of himself to, and he had turned out not to be enough for her; the resulting guilt and shame that have weighed him down all these years keep him from sharing her existence with others. The thought of breaking the crypt open now wearies him before he's even started—he has no reason to believe Kate would appreciate his retelling of the memory of an ex-girlfriend from a decade ago. Yet, he wants her to know about it. He wants her to feel the _pain _he has lugged around—the suffocating noose encircling his neck—for so long. (Even as he thinks that, he acknowledges that he is selfish: Her mother was murdered. He broke up with his girlfriend. There is no comparing the two situations.)

Kate curls her fingers around his, as if sensing his reluctance to talk. "You must've liked her a lot," she prompts softly.

"I loved her," he murmurs in response. "I was a very naïve boy. I thought—I thought she was the One. We had so much in common, y'see: We both loved language and we both loved writing and she had as many Daddy issues as I had Mommy issues. I thought that meant she understood me, and we were gonna withstand the test of time. I mean, _three years. _I'm not even sure I ever stayed in any one school for that long a time. So, I thought … if we could make it past college? I was gonna marry her. She'd be It for me."

He shifts in his seat, pulling his hand out of Kate's before continuing, "When she left, she told me she needed some time from me; that I was stifling her too much. She said she was gonna look around to see what there was in the world before she came back to me. She never did, though. So here I am, nine years later—waiting."

"For her?"

"I don't know," he answers miserably. "I want to say that I've moved on, but I can't. When people move on, they go dating again. They find someone else they like. They fall in love again. Some of them marry; maybe even have kids. And I've tried to move on—I really have—but _years _more of parties and social events and dating, and I still hadn't found anyone who could last beyond a one-night stand. Who _wanted _to be more than a one-night stand. I guess I gave up eventually…. It was very hard to date after my books started to sell. Women saw me either as this famous author, if I wore my mask properly, or as this socially awkward guy. Or as this famous author who's this socially awkward guy, which is the worst one. 'Cause they always think successful people have their lives under control, y'know? 'You're rich, you're famous; what more could you want?' And when they see that I don't, they start asking why, and I don't want to just tell them about the college girlfriend who made me afraid of getting burnt—'cause it just shouldn't be a big deal. I shouldn't care. But I do, and if I don't tell them that, then they start wondering what's wrong with me—what skeletons I'm hiding in my closet—and … that's where everything goes south, I guess. So, I gave up dating.

"And there you have it: The story of my life." The long silence that follows his statement twists his insides brutally. He turns his head away, blinking back the tears that he hopes she doesn't see, and sighs. "Look, Kate, I—I appreciate your attempts to get me to talk, but I … just don't do that for a reason. And I know you think it might help me, but when I've—when you've been alone for so long, you get a lot of time to think about yourself, and you start to realize that maybe you just aren't suited for things like dating and _mmph—_"

Her lips are so soft. So very soft. And when she opens her mouth against his, he feels an electric current race through his skin down his body all the way to his toes—

—It's sinful and delicious and wrong right devastatingly exciting and it drugs him up into a haze where he pulls her closer, desperate, yearning, drinking in the taste of her tongue and mouth to quench the thirst that had lain dormant in him. She makes him so much in lust with her.

But it's this thought that forces him to push back from her suddenly, digging in his heels to steady himself against the reactive forward momentum of the swing. He stares at her.

She stands straight—only then does he realized that she must've been crouched painfully in mid-air earlier. She'd gotten up from her seat, moved over to him, and bent down—to kiss the insecurity out of him. He drops his head. Shame rolls through his stomach, smothering the arousal that had flared up in his veins. He feels horribly like throwing up.

"Kate," he rasps, aghast, "no."

"It wasn't good?" she questions uncertainly, her voice small. It only serves to worsen his nausea.

"It's not that," he promises. "But you can't just kiss me to make me feel better."

"I wasn't." Her answer is loud; insistent. He raises his head.

"Then what was that?"

It's her turn to avert her gaze. "I couldn't listen to you beat yourself up anymore."

"So you kissed me to shut me up?" he asks incredulously.

"I kissed you to make you understand that you are still desirable to someone!"

He thinks it stuns them both, hearing such a bold statement ring through the air. She blushes furiously, but she holds her ground, defiantly glaring him down until he lifts his heels and lets the swing gently return to its original position. Carefully, he captures her fingers with his.

"Kate, what are you saying?"

"I do like you, Rick." Her eyes are glittery when she smiles sadly down at him. "I think you're kind and compassionate and selfless—maybe even too selfless. You were willing to put aside your own reservations to help me, and I don't think you realize that _I see that. _But I _do. _And I'm grateful. And I'm waiting for a time when I can be more for you, but that doesn't mean I don't like you right now. I just need time, Rick. I need time to heal. And you need—you need time to realize that I don't just keep you around for kicks. I need time, but not _from _you. I need time _beside _you. Can you give me that?"

Perhaps it's the break in her voice on the last word, but she sounds sincere to him.

"That's what it was about?" he asks, almost relieved. Her blush re-emerges.

"I liked kissing you, too," she admits softly. "But I just—I want this too. That's what I'm trying to tell you. I'm not walking away unless you give me a reason to."

"What kind of reason?" he asks hesitantly.

"The kind that we would've talked about long before there was any need to do something drastic."

She's so serious about this. About committing to him. About the possibility of _them _together. He loves her for that alone, even if he knows she might change her mind at some point. "Okay," he breathes.

She shuffles forwards and lifts her free hand to his nape, pulling him in close; he shuts his eyes and tips his forehead to rest it against her stomach, basking in the feeling of her fingers combing through his hair. It's been a long time since he's felt comforted by the presence of someone other than his mother. And though Kate might not be his partner (yet), she _is_ his best friend, and never has he felt happier to have someone of that label with him; beside him.

He thinks things might work out well between them yet.

"Rick?" she calls eventually.

"Yeah," he replies without lifting his head.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

"… I might have eaten a lot of cake," he answers sheepishly, and her body shakes as she chuckles.

"C'mon," she says, patting his cheek, "it's getting cold. Let's go get dinner—well, I'll get dinner, and you can tell me the story of you gorging yourself on cake. How does Remy's sound?"

"Excellent," he agrees, standing and entwining his fingers with hers. She shakes her head at him, but lets him keep her hand.

Tomorrow, they'll return to normal, preserving their status as friends by keeping the right distance between themselves across the table and talking about pointless and innocuous things during long phone calls.

But tonight, they have the swings … and he's hopeful.

He's more hopeful than he's been in nine years.


	12. Classroom

**Classroom**

He wakes up early on her birthday and calls her at the time that he knows her to be getting ready for class. She wouldn't miss school for anything; though he feels bad that she has to attend class on her birthday, he's glad she has a distraction.

Her voice is subdued and she speaks few words, but he doesn't push her and she doesn't talk much. She just says thank you in response to his wishes. He reminds her to take care of herself; she says she will.

At lunchtime, he calls her again and invites her out to a café, but she refuses. He spends the afternoon hovering by his phone (which he knows is stupid—a cell phone can be carried everywhere, but he grew up in the era of landlines, _shut up_). He feels half-tempted to call the Academy and check up on her, but knows she wouldn't appreciate the interference; in the end, blind faith in her is what carries him through his worry.

In the evening, she calls him.

She sounds teary, but is also much more willing to talk than she had been in the morning, so he grabs his phone and his coffee and settles down onto the couch with his blanket to talk to her. By the time the low-battery signal on his phone beeps, she's already fallen asleep, and he's been listening to the sound of her breathing for half an hour. He doesn't think it's creepy. She had been well-aware of the fact that she was falling asleep on him, and had let him spin her a tale of a world-weary princess who fearlessly battled dragons. (It's a childish story, one neither of them even truly believes in, but it's the innocence they need—a world where black and white are demarcated with a thick, clean line, and nothing evil ever happens to good people.)

At half past two in the morning, he whispers to her a 'Goodnight' and terminates the call, fervently hoping she knows she's the princess in the story. She's not royalty and she's not fearless and she's never battled with a dragon. But she's brave and she's determined and she's stronger than anyone he's ever met.

Absently, he thinks to himself that if he had a little girl, he would want her to be like Kate.

Still, he doesn't have a little girl, and he and Kate are eons away from having _that _conversation, so he quickly dismisses that thought and locates the charger for his phone. Thus equipped—phone on his bedside table so he can hear it if it rings and charger connected to his phone to ensure it _does _ring if someone tries to contact him—he falls into bed, eyes shut before his head even hits the pillow.

-.-.-.-.-

The first proper laugh he elicits from her is four days later, at the class he'd signed them up for as a birthday present to her. It's far enough now from her actual birthday that she doesn't feel uncomfortable celebrating, and it's also something that's less about her mother and more about _them, _but he had still been nervous when he first told her about it.

"_I—uh, I signed us up for a class," he stutters._

"_It's not a couple's class, is it?" she answers, sounding so wary that he backpedals immediately._

He hates backpedalling—he's always thought it was the coward's way—but there's just something about Kate that makes him unable to face the possibility of rejection. He doesn't know what that says about him. (Probably that he's quite spineless.)

It'd taken her another five minutes to cajole the answer out of him.

She'd agreed to attend, which was what has brought them here now, to the room with floor-to-ceiling windows and several rows of counters. At one of the counters is a place for them; an espresso machine sits on the marble countertop so that she can work out how _not _to ruin her latte every single time she makes it.

The coffee-making class is really more for her than for him. He already knows how to make a latte, but she burns herself with the steam from the milk every time she tries to use his machine, which just won't do. She's a princess—she saves herself. So, he's signed them up for a class.

She's diligent in her eagerness to learn, taking down notes as if there will be an exam at some point. Beside her, he goofs off as surreptitiously as possible. She'd been rather bummed because she had burnt her hand _again _during an earlier trial run, and he wants to cheer her up; her focus on the instructor works in his favour, because when he pushes a mug towards her, she's caught totally off-guard.

A flowering latte heart. That's what he gives her.

The corners of her mouth pull up, a surprised chuckle escaping her before she can clap a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks colour prettily and her eyes dance; for a second there, she looks like she might kiss him.

"No one's ever drawn me a foam heart before," she tells him, stunned and breathless.

And he falls in love with her a little bit more. (He knows it's clichéd. Even writers aren't impervious to the most common of feelings.)

She shifts the mug over to her side of the countertop and draws him close, pressing a finger to his lips when he moves to speak. She lets go of him after that, picks up her pen and continues scribbling down notes; but he desists his activity and takes up the occupation of studying her.

Every day, he falls in love with her a little bit more.

Every day, she seems to fall in love with him a little bit more, too.

-.-.-.-.-

They remain in the classroom at the end of the lesson, loitering around their counter as everyone else files out. In a corner, a janitor starts cleaning, but the man is at the far side of the room, and Kate's fingers still trace the curvature of her ceramic mug. Not a drop of coffee has been drunk. The foam is long gone, its heart dissolved somewhere into the depths of the mug, and Rick absently wonders why she hasn't taken a sip. Had she not wanted to destroy the heart?

Eventually, she dips a finger into the drink and brings the pad of her digit up to her lips, sucking a bead of liquid off it. Reflexively, he swallows. She brings the entire mug of coffee to her mouth then, finishing it off in large gulps even though he knows she hates cold coffee. She puts the mug down and smiles at him.

"Thank you," she says, "for the coffee … and the class."

He smiles back shyly. She sounds so _grateful, _and he's just happy that he can make her happy. He opens his mouth to tell her she's welcome, but the word that slips out is different—"Always," he says instead, and as it turns out, he does mean it.

She steps closer to him; his heart rate ratchets a few beats. She looks beautiful—wavy dark chocolate hair contrasting against her pale yellow sweater—and she smells like she always does—cherries and vanilla and _her—_and he can't forget the one kiss they shared. Everything about that night has been imprinted clearly into his mind.

But then she just hugs him, and he doesn't know whether to feel relieved or devastated. On one hand, he knows she's not ready. (For that matter, neither is he.) On the other, he just really wants to kiss her.

Still, he takes that moment to delve into another opportunity, and buries his face into her hair. The strands are silky and malleable, giving way easily under the press of his nose. He inhales deeply. He's never found anything quite as intoxicating as her scent.

He relishes in the soothing circular motions of her palm against his back and allows himself to relax until she's carrying a little of his weight. Only then do they pull away. He feels dazed, but her eyes are bright and her voice, thick, as she says, "You're a good man, Rick. I'm lucky to have you."

He glances away. He hopes he isn't blushing, because that would be rather unmanly. "It's just a class," he murmurs.

Her fingers find his. "It's hope," she corrects softly. "It's not fireworks or a car or a house in Malibu, but you've given me what _I _could want and use, and that's worth more than any expensive present you could give me which society wouldn't describe as a 'just'."

He regards her cautiously, not sure how to take that statement.

"You're always so careful around me, like you don't know how I'm going to react to you," she explains. It feels a bit like a stab to his gut, so accurate are her words. "And it's not because you've done anything wrong. And even though it's not … _good, _exactly, it—it does show me that I mean something to you."

"You do," he assures her quickly.

"I know," she answers. "And _that's _the hope you give me. That … my life matters outside my mother's death. That I might never be at peace again, but someday, maybe, I could still be happy. That there is still meaning for me to find in a latte heart."

He sucks in a breath of air and tightens his fingers around hers.

"I'm not ready yet," she confesses, even though that is something they both already know. "Before I get into this, I'd like to be able to wake up without this _weight _pressing down on my chest. But the day I do—"

"Kate?" he interrupts, even though he doesn't really mean to. He curses himself when she looks at him: He hadn't meant to draw her out of her thoughts, alert her to his lingering insecurities; but now, she's waiting for him to speak. With a sigh, he asks her, "How do you know it's _me _you want? I mean—there are still so many avenues for you, y'know? And you could have any of them. And Kyra thought she wanted me, but—"

"I am not Kyra, and I would appreciate it if you stopped relating us as such," she cuts in, a sharp edge to her voice, and he looks away. (He never does anything right.) "How do I know? I don't know. I don't _know _know. It's not like there's a giant neon sign pointed toward you saying 'soul mate.' I don't even believe in that sorta stuff."

It hardly makes him feel better.

But then she softens her voice and adds, "But I … choose. I believe in self-determinism, and I choose. I choose _you._ I want _you._"

He raises his head, barely daring to meet her eyes. When he does, though, they are free of guile; just clear, steady, and sure of her words. "You won't change your mind?" he mumbles.

"If I do, I must have less respect for myself than I thought," she replies, cupping his cheek with her hand, "to let someone as great as you go."

Oh, he's pretty sure he's blushing _now, _even if he hadn't been. (So-freakin'-unmanly.) But he doesn't care. He covers the hand on his cheek with his own and holds her gaze—for a second or for an hour, he doesn't know, until the janitor moves up to their row of counters.

Kate steps back then; clears her throat and collects her purse. "I don't know about you," she continues in a normal voice, "but I could use a sandwich after all that coffee."

He takes her invitation for what it is. "I know just the place," he promises. With a hand on the small of her back, he leads them out.

* * *

**A/N: **In case you're wondering—yes, there are in fact classes that teach you to make coffee :P you can file that under 'Interesting things Sophie learns while ficcing.' They're usually pretty specialized, though; in fact, you could have a class just on latte art! I have, however, never been to any of these classes, so the classroom layout and method of teaching are only wild conjectures. Take these at face value.

**A/N 2: **This chapter is, very likely, the penultimate chapter. When I started this story, it was meant to be a five-chapter fic immediately following Johanna Beckett's death; clearly, that plan very quickly went out the window, but it's reached the point where it's almost run its course anyway. This fic was about Rick helping Kate through her mother's death, and now that that (and maybe more, or less, idk) has been achieved, it's a good place to end. So, the next chapter will be the last :) thank you for having read this far!

_**-Soph**_


	13. Cemetery

**Cemetery**

Snow crunches underfoot as they pad silently amongst the headstones, row by row, haphazard column by haphazard column, until they reach the one marked 'BECKETT'. Kate's mother. Johanna Beckett _had _been young, Rick notes, and he remembers with a pang the deceased woman's nineteen-year-old girl daughter sobbing her heart out to him on a plane. It's been a full year since, and Kate has changed a lot; he watches as she bends, solemn and reverent, to place flowers on her mother's grave, and he realizes all at once that she is not the same college girl who had fallen apart inside an airborne cabin of seventy people.

"Hi, Mom," she begins, calmly and quietly. "You've probably been wondering how I've spent my time so far; I haven't been back since the funeral. It's been a year."

A tear rolls down her cheek. Kate reaches out slowly, ignoring the drop of liquid that quivers unattended at the curve of her jaw, and brushes tender, gloved fingers across granite façade. It's such a small gravestone. He wonders whether she would mind if he bought her family a new one. Probably—but he can't bear that this is all Kate has left of her mother.

"It's been hard." Her voice trembles. "But, uh, I've tried to move on. I know you'd want that. There's a therapist I see—Dr Burke—he's been talking to me a lot about my nightmares and guilt and stuff…. I _am _sorry, Mom. I'm sorry you died. I'm sorry I didn't visit you until now. I'm sorry I … changed the course of my life. I didn't go back to college after the funeral. I stayed to—I'm training to become a cop now. You'd probably disapprove; Dad does. But then you were always the one to hold him back when he tried to stop me from doing what I wanted….

"Dad and I don't get along now," she continues sadly. "We haven't since you weren't there to keep the peace. But I'll try to reach out to him; he's been taking your death hard, and I think I just had to figure myself out first, y'know? And speaking of that … um, guess who I have here? It's Rick Castle, your favourite author. He—he helped me a lot after—. You must be so jealous that I got to meet him before you did, huh?"

Rick absorbs that with surprise. He never knew that Johanna Beckett had wanted to meet him. He never knew that he had been her favourite author.

Kate beckons to him with a tired smile, arm outstretched and fingers crooked so as to take his hand, and he laces his digits around hers as he squats down next to her.

"Hi, Mrs Beckett," he offers feebly, but his mind is blank. He feels a little silly, staring at a tablet with Johanna's name inscribed into it. It isn't that he doesn't believe she can hear him—though Kate would laugh at him, he likes to think that Johanna is out there, somewhere, watching over them—but he's never met the woman before, and he has no clue what they could possibly talk about.

He could tell her about her daughter. About how overwhelmingly smart and beautiful and tenacious her Kate is. But he assumes that Johanna must have been the same, so what could he share with her that she wouldn't already know?

"Say something," Kate urges, nudging her elbow into him.

He squirms away with a pitiful whine and stutters, "U-um, I met your daughter. She's great. I, uh, I met her on a plane ride."

Kate stills a little beside him, so he pauses; reorganizes his thoughts and veers quickly onto a different course. Taking a deep breath, he adds, "Kate told me you liked my stories. She told me a lot about you, actually—about how you taught her to sing and how you used to go ice skating together and how you had a weird thing for daytime soaps. I'm sorry, Mrs Beckett, but _Temptation Lane?_ You could've done better."

Beside him, Kate chuckles and buries her face into the shoulder of his coat.

"My own mother was on _Temptation Lane_, though," he continues reflectively, "so maybe it wasn't that bad. Then again, knowing how eccentric my mother is….

"But that wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about." He hesitates. There's been an idea brewing in his head for a few days now, but he's yet to put words to it. "What I wanted to talk to you about was, um … I've been thinking of starting a new series. My contract for Derrick Storm is nearly up—I'm in the middle of writing the last book they signed me for—and they've shown inclination to draft me a new one, but I could put him to rest and start over with a new character. Go in a completely different direction, if you will. I was thinking … that the new protagonist could be a civil rights attorney who took on the difficult cases in a tireless fight for justice. Sort of like Atticus Finch—except within a modern setting."

Kate lifts her head. Rick can feel her eyes boring into him. He's never mentioned this possibility to her before—that he wants to base a book series on her mother—but it's something he feels really strongly about. He thinks it could be a way to remember Johanna Beckett; a way for Kate to simultaneously forget and yet remember, move on into a new future and yet stay tethered to her past. He knows she's been feeling guilty and afraid of reconstructing her life too drastically: If only he could help her ease the conflict within herself a little bit, he would not hesitate for a single moment.

"That's a lame tag line, Rick," she murmurs to him, and he laughs, knowing that it's her way of saying he has her interest.

"I'll work on it if need be," he promises her before turning back to the gravestone. "But for now … I just wanted to let you know, Mrs Beckett. Or ask you. Not that I was expecting a divine sign or anything. But it felt right to tell you first. You're the inspiration, after all."

Kate squeezes his fingers.

"I'll take good care of Kate," he says finally. "You're probably gonna tell me she can take care of herself, and I agree. But I think we could all use the company sometimes. I know she's the best company I've ever had, and I will never make her feel like she can't think the same about me.

"So, um … yeah. It was nice to meet you. Don't take this the wrong way—but I hope that you're resting in peace."

The ending might have been a little awkward, but he thinks he's done alright. He moves to stand and give Kate her space again, but she keeps a tight hold of his fingers, refusing to let him budge an inch.

"He's a good man, isn't he?" she whispers, her voice strained and brittle in the wind. She's not looking at him, but he can still see the wet glimmer of her eyes. "You would've loved him, Mom. You would probably have told me that you couldn't believe the rebellious teenager that I was could _ever _hang out with your favourite author. But … things change. I'm not the kid you knew me as anymore—but I hope you can still be proud of me."

A lump grows in his throat as he watches her press leathered fingertips to her lips and then to the gravestone. Her hand grazes across the smooth, cold surface before dropping away.

"I gotta go now," she says. "But I'll have better news when I come back next time. I'll try and reconnect with Dad, and I'll—I'll try and find a way to make us a family again. I love you so much, Mom."

A sob catches audibly in her throat; Rick blinks back his own tears and stands, helping her up and drawing her into his arms once she's risen.

Here, in this white graveyard that is overcrowded with tombstones but sparse of the living, she seems as fragile as the bared branches of the nearby tree that cracks under the weight of the snow.

But then she tucks herself into his embrace and clings tightly to him for a heartbeat or two, and when she releases herself from his shelter and tilts her head back to look at him, her gaze is determined beneath the crystal droplets that rim her eyelashes.

She is stronger than he has ever seen her.

"C'mon, Rick," she says softly—the most striking contradiction. "Let's go find somewhere you can tell me about this book series."

She turns and leads them back to the car.

He lets her, because he knows she needs to prove to herself that she's capable not only of standing on her two own feet, but also of keeping others close while she does so. When she holds her hand out for the car keys, he passes them to her willingly and steps around to the passenger's side without a word.

They've come a long way, he thinks.

He would never in a million years have expected the girl on a plane who refused to even look at him to end up side by side with him in his car. (In the driver's seat, no less!) But she's here, resilient despite her vulnerability, smiling faintly at him despite the tear tracks on her cheeks, making her way through her grief—he's content.

Content that he's witnessed her healing; content that he's the one who's gotten to stay with her through the journey.

She's changed his life without knowing it.

* * *

**A/N: **Yup. That's the end. I hope you've enjoyed this journey, and thank you, everyone, for all the support and reviews you've given me. Please do drop me a line to let me know what you think of the overall story, even if you've never done so before! Before I go, I'd like to express my **full appreciation **for everyone who's made this story much easier to write. It's not my first _Castle _story, but it is one that, I think, more people have read and engaged in, and I'm grateful to even have been given the opportunity to write for you at all. So, for always, _thank you._

_**-Soph**_


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